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FRENCH  ESSAYS  AND  PROFILES 


FRENCH 
ESSAYS  AND  PROFILES 


BY 

STUART  HENRY 

AUTHOR  OF  "hours  WITH   FAMOUS   PARISIANS," 

"villa  elsa,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  eff  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1921, 
BY  E.  P.  DUTTON  &    COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  In  the  TTnlted  States  of  America 


"Pa 


TO 

THAT  SEVERE  AND  AFFECTIONATE  CRITIC 

MY  WIFE 


189S25 


NOTE 

Certain  of  these  articles  have  appeared  in  The 
Bookman  and  The  Criterion  of  New  York  and  in 
The  Contemporary  Review  and  St.  James's  Budget 
of  London. 

Most  of  the  subjects  of  the  Profiles  have  been 
personal  acquaintances  of  the  author. 


CONTENTS 

ESSAYS 


PAGE 


i.    The  Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  de  Lisle     .  3 

His  Nature  and  His  East 3 

His   Philosophy 9 

Physical  and  Inner  Sensibilities 20 

Imagination  and  Fancy 24 

Artistic  and  Esthetic  Sensibilities     ....  25 

Style 31 

Concluding   Comment 34 

ii.    The  Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics  .  39 

Madame    Marie    Mennessier-Nodier     ...  41 

iii.    The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet    .      .  89 

The  Famous  Danseuses 91 

The  Transformation  in  the  Ballet  from  Taglione 

to    1900 118 

iv.     The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest     .     .  155 

V.     Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians     .      .      .  173 

vi.    The  Production  of  Noted  Persons  in  France  187 

vii.    The  Gray  and  Gay  Race 197 

PROFILES 

i.    Jules  Claretie 209 

Ii.     Francois  Coppee 217 

iii.      COQUELIN    THE    ElDER 223 

vii 


viii  Contents 


PAGE 


iv.  Dumas  the  Elder 231 

V.  Dumas  the  Younger 241 

vi.  Judith  Gautier 249 

vii,  Henry  Greville 257 

viii.  Gyp 267 

ix.  Jeanne  Hugo 275 

X.  Jules  Lemaitre 281 

xi.  Pierre   Loti 287 

xii.  RosiTA    Mauri 297 

xiii.  Frederic  Mistral        303 

xiv.  Georges   Pellisier 311 

XV.  Edouard  Rod 3^7 

xvi.  RosNY  THE   Elder 323 

xvii.  ViCTOWEN  Sardou 329 


ESS  A  YS 


i.    The  Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  de  Lisle 


V 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Leconte  de  Lisle  was  born  in  i8i8  in  the  French  He  de  la 
Reunion,  east  of  Madagascar.  He  traveled  in  the  Indies  and 
settled  in  Paris  in  1848.  A  pension  and  a  cross  of  honor  were 
soon  given  him  by  the  French  Empire  for  his  literary  work,  though 
he  had  joined  the  Republican  movement. 

He  dropped  politics  for  literature,  maintaining  all  the  while  a 
remarkably  independent  attitude,  and  soon  became  the  leader  of 
a  new  school  called  the  Parnassian  in  recognition  of  its  antique 
or  classic  types  as  contrasted  with  the  Romantic  which  had  been 
in  vogue. 

Leconte  de  Lisle  was  professedly  hostile  to  modernity  and  to 
religion,  and  difficult  in  his  relations  with  men.  Hating  women, 
he  never  married,  yet  held  a  salon.  He  was  a  stately  and  elegant 
figure  of  protest,  cold  in  his  disillusionment  and  skepticism.  Yet 
his  temperament  of  a  grand  or  imposing  nature  attracted  as  well 
as  dominated.  He  wrote  and  translated  plays  of  the  classic  order 
which  were  presented,  but  his  fame  rests  on  the  three  volumes  of 
verse  with  which  the  following  essay  deals:  "Poemes  antiques" 
(1852),  "Poemes  barbares"  (1862),  and  "Poemes  tragiques" 
(1884).  He  was  made  a  member  of  the  Academy  in  1886,  re- 
placing the  dead  Victor  Hugo.    He  died  in  Paris  in  1894. 


^ 


•<£> 


FRENCH   ESSAYS 
AND  PROFILES 


THE  POETIC  LEGACY  OF  LECONTE 
DE  LISLE 

HIS    NATURE    AND    HIS    EAST 

IN  SO  far  as  Leconte  de  Lisle  is  a  philosopher,  he 
appears  to  follow  Alfred  de  Vigny  among  mod- 
erns, and  to  look  upon  the  universe  as  a  senseless, 
implacable  spectacle  which  mocks  at  human  joys  and  is 
dumb  to  human  sufferings.  This  attitude  is  a  feature 
of  what  is  usually  called  his  cult  of  the  insensible.  His 
longing  to  be  absorbed  into  "the  impassible  beauty"  of 
Nature,  and  to  be  consumed  into  "the  eternal  silence 
and  oblivion  of  the  stars,"  is  a  part  of  his  dream  of 
Nirvana.  In  some  of  his  verse,  however,  he  represents 
the  vivified  forms  and  moods  of  Nature  which  the 
Romantics  had  made  familiar,  and  communes  with,  and 
draws  solace  from,  landscape  and  sea.  In  "Juin"  he 
says:  "Perfume  well  the  heart  which  is  going  to  taste 
life;  and  dip  it  in  the  peace  and  the  freshness  of  the 
skies.  O  Sun,  pour  thy  flood  of  purple  into  the 
exhausted  soul."  Again  in  "Nox"  :  "O  seas,  O  dream- 
ing forests,  pious  voices  of  the  world,  you  have 
responded    during   my    unfortunate    days;    you    have 

3 


4  French  Essays  and  Profiles 

soothed  my  empty  sadness;  and  in  my  heart  also  you 
sing  forever!" 

Many  passages  of  like  import  are  found  where  the 
poet  treats  Nature  as  a  friend  and  a  refuge.  How 
then  does  he  reconcile  this  with  his  dictum  that 
Nature  is  cruelly  impassive — that  it  "does  not  hear  our 
cries  of  love  and  anathema"?  The  confusion  appears 
to  come  from  the  fact  that  Nature  reflects  our  own 
varying  attitudes  toward  it — it  is  dumb  to  us,  or  a 
friendly  solace,  as  we  are  dumb  or  friendly  to  it — and, 
too,  from  the  general  fact  that,  in  his  impassible 
moods,  Leconte  de  Lisle  contemplates  it  as  it  appears 
mutely  en  bloc  and  at  a  distance,  while  in  his  com- 
panionable moments  he  finds  comfort  in  the  appear- 
ances of  the  earth's  surface  close  about  him.  In  any 
event  the  poet's  attitude  toward  Nature  is  incoherent, 
for  he  has  unconsciously  attempted  to  follow  the  cold 
dicta  of  Vigny  and  also  the  expanding  sentiments  of 
the  Nature-loving  Hugo — both  and  all  formed  into 
his  Buddhist  cult  which  therefore  presents  the  incon- 
gruous creed  of  proclaiming  the  derisive  muteness  of 
sky  and  space,  and  of  worshiping  them,  at  the  same 
time,  as  the  balm  for  human  woes. 

It  is  for  its  ornamental  beauty  that  Nature  is  almost 
incomparable  in  the  pages  of  Leconte  de  Lisle.  With 
the  Vigny  idea  of  it  as  an  inanimate  decoration,  the 
poet  composed  all  that  verse  wherein  Nature  is  enam- 
eled with  the  splendor  of  the  orient  and  the  tropics; 
or  is  employed  as  an  ornate  background  fit  for  the 
tragic  stage  of  his  epic  verse,  as  in  "Kain";  or  is  repre- 
sented in  dull,  leaden  wastes  "marked  with  a  sign  of 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle      5 

wrath" — the  commencement  of  the  world's  frozen 
death — as  in  his  poems  on  the  North.  His  domain  of 
Nature  is  never  meant  to  be  French,  and  is  employed 
by  him  mainly  as  a  theme — avowedly  exotic — to  justify 
the  display  of  his  artistic  love  of  grandeurs.  Animals 
and  the  firmament  are  his  favorite  subjects.  In  this  he 
follows  Hugo — conspicuously  so  in  his  hankering  for 
the  animal  kingdom.  His  verse  descriptive  of  wild 
beasts  is  perhaps  the  most  effective  of  all  his  poetry 
on  Nature. 

His  universe  is,  for  the  most  part,  glazed,  poly- 
chrome. Its  dawns  have  "metallic  lips,"  its  waves  are 
emerald,  its  clouds  are  bronze,  just  as  on  sceneries  of 
porcelain.  Action,  gayety,  perfume,  color,  perspective 
and  the  manifold  beauties  of  real  life  and  the  real  world 
are  to  be  looked  for  here  as  if  on  Sevres  vases.  And 
yet  with  all  his  patient  toil  on  this  rime  and  rhythm 
of  enamel,  you  feel  that  he  is,  like  Hugo,  always 
magnificently  out  of  doors  and  abroad  in  space.  This 
is  one  of  the  two  great  features  of  his  poetry  on 
Nature.  The  other  is  that  he  makes  the  tropical  sun 
burn  intensely  on  his  stanzas.  The  rays  of  Sol  glint 
fiercely  and  gloriously  on  his  chromatic  wares. 

We  drift  naturally  here  into  his  Eastern  region. 
The  descriptions  of  his  Hindoo  nature  as  seen  in 
"Bhagavat,"  for  instance,  do  not  differ  essentially 
from  those  usually  found  in  his  Greek  verse;  but  in 
"Le  Desert"  and  other  poems,  we  have  the  true, 
vibrant,  equatorial  realm.  Likewise,  there  may  be 
found  in  his  oriental  verse  types  of  women  which 
resemble  the  Greek;   and  then   there   is   his   genuine. 


6  French  Essays  and  Profiles 

tropical  type  as  described  in  "Le  Manchy."  In  "La 
Verandah,"  one  of  his  richest  and  truest  lyric  colora- 
tions, we  have  a  Persian  princess  in  all  the  elegance  of 
a  royal  Iranian  siesta.  The  incidents  which  afford  him 
the  opportunity  of  covering  page  after  page  with  deco- 
rative verse  are  the  simplest  and  most  conventional 
imaginable.  He  is  in  no  sense  an  inventor  of  tales  nor 
an  original  observer  and  profound  meditator  on  life 
and  occurrences,  x^s  far  as  information,  ideas  and  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  realities  go,  one  seems  to  need 
scarcely  more  than  a  common  encyclopedia  in  reading 
his  verse;  for  he  has  employed  the  common  stock  of 
instruction  and  observation  rather  than  relied  on  any- 
thing gleaned  by  himself  from  original  and  personal 
sources. 

It  is,  however,  to  be  emphasized  that  he  was  a 
savant.  He  was  in  reality  an  admirable  scholar,  and 
eminently  so  in  comparison  with  his  Romantic  prede- 
cessors who  were  far  from  being  erudite.  But  the 
point  sought  to  be  made  is  that  Leconte  de  Lisle  got 
everything  at  facile  second  hand.  Although  he  was  to 
some  extent  familiar  with  the  East,  most  of  his  poetry 
(all  of  it,  in  fact,  being  written  in  France)  bears  the  dis- 
tinct mark  of  having  -been  studied  among  the  tropical 
life  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  because  he  gives  us  the 
clear  impression  of  having  observed  his  animals  a  few 
feet  away,  like  a  sculptor  of  lions  who  scrutinizes  his 
models  in  a  cage.  This,  in  its  turn,  has  its  interest  and 
value,  for  while  the  Romantics  beheld  largely  through 
their  fancy,  Leconte  de  Lisle  strove  for  a  closer  reality 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle      7 

— a  marked  step  in  the  evolution  to  Naturalism  from 
imaginative  Romanticism. 

To  continue  to  note  the  limitations  of  his  East.  We 
do  not  find  in  all  this  verse  the  description  of  a  Hindoo 
temple,  a  bit  of  Himalayan  scenery,  a  dancing  girl 
writhing  in  soft  clashes  of  pearls,  a  native  custom  nor 
a  religious  rite,  nor  anything  to  indicate  that  he  has  a 
special  and  exotic  knowledge  of  his  own.  There  is 
scarcely  a  line  which  hints  that  he  was  born  on  an  isle 
in  the  Indian  ocean,  and  spent  the  first  twenty-five 
years  of  his  life  in  the  orient.  There  is  nothing  of 
the  soft,  subtle  effect  of  night  and  devotional  reclusion 
such  as  Brangwyn  puts  on  canvases.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  soul  of  Buddhist  mysticism.  All  is  hard,  exter- 
nal, and,  in  a  sense,  formal  and  superficial.  Granted 
that  the  epoch  of  Valmiki  was,  as  Leconte  de  Lisle  once 
declared,  the  equal  and  counterpart  of  that  of  Homer, 
how  far  he  has  come  from  initiating  us  into  its  secret 
and  mysterious  glories !  It  is  as  if  he  had  been  merely 
a  voyager  on  southern  seas  and  along  eastern  shores, 
stopping  here  and  there  at  a  port,  and  bringing  away 
a  general  impression,  like  one  who  is  on  the  outside  of 
his  topic. 

In  all  these  aspects  one  quickly  realizes  how  little 
the  poet  has  really  said  tJiat  is  new  and  origirml  in  his 
barbaric  pages,  and  how  narrow  their  range  is  and 
incomplete  their  scope.  His  exteriority  and  artificiality, 
however,  do  not  disp4ease  us  here  so  much  as  in  the 
themes  with  which  we  are  more  famihar  and  have  an 
acquaintance   of  our  own.    For,   in  our  comparative 


8  French  Essays  and  Profiles 

ignorance  of  the  Eastern  realm,  we  look  here  for  vague 
and  general  rather  than  particular  impressions,  and 
are  not  disappointed.  Then,  too,  glittering  convention- 
alities and  idealizations  are  readily  passed  over  on 
decorated  surfaces  so  immense  and  brilliant  as  these. 

Whence,  therefore,  the  merit  of  this  verse?  It  lies 
in  its  prism-changing  immobility  "which  knows  neither 
desires  nor  tears,"  in  its  fixed  gloss  and  glamour,  in  its 
elegance  whose  rimes  intercross  like  palms  of  gold. 
The  flame  and  flare  of  the  orient  are  upon  this  poetry. 
It  is  the  tropical  world  of  gigantic  colors,  of  supreme 
passiveness,  of  splendid  luxuries,  and  brutalities.  It 
has  the  sense  of  immensity  and  the  strength  of  contour; 
of  glassy,  solemn-faced  inertia  and  melancholic  stupid- 
ity. It  represents  a  colossal  ennui  imprisoned  in 
amazing  robes  of  colored  porcelain.  Its  very  short- 
comings, limitations  and  monotony  are  essential  to  its 
truly  barbaric  effect. 

But  all  is  not  impassible  in  the  verse  of  Leconte  de 
Lisle.  A  part  of  it  presents  an  exception  to  the  above 
characterizations  of  his  glazed  Nature  and  his  East. 
In  some  thirty  of  his  one  hundred  and  seventy-five 
poems,  his  physical  and  inner  sensibilities  and  imagina- 
tion are  alive.  Here  he  makes  his  verse  live,  and  lives 
in  his  verse,  in  the  manner  of  Hugo.  "Les  Jungles"  is 
among  these  poems,  and  gives  us  a  true  sensation  of 
that  life  wherein  Nirvana  begins  on  earth  and  all  is 
"the  shadow  of  a  dream";  and  where  existence  thins 
out  into  nothingness  in  heat-expanding  immensities,  and 
finally  disappears  in  its  own  dimensions  without  bounds, 
like  a  ripple  caused  by  a  dropped  pebble,  to  use  the 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle      9 

poet's  own  simile.  One  feels  here  divinely  absorbed 
out  and  up  into  the  firmament,  like  a  worshiper  of 
Buddha,  We  realize  the  dreaminess  of  the  Hindoo 
life  in  the  poet's  flat-nosed,  world-sick,  bull,  whose 
mournful  bellow  faintly  echoes  in  our  ears  across  sun- 
baked plains  and  lonesome,  yawning  centuries.  It  is 
in  accordance  with  his  contempt  of  human  kind  and  his 
admiration  of  great  beasts,  as  we  shall  see,  that  he 
makes  his  brutes,  rather  than  his  human  beings,  live 
and  express  his  sensibilities  and  sentiments.  Much 
less  effective  as  a  living  picture  is  his  "Le  Manchy" 
with  its  maid  than  "Les  Jungles"  with  its  behemoth. 

HIS    PHILOSOPHY 

In  the  main  Leconte  de  Lisle  seems  to  follow 
VIgny  in  holding  tha*t  human  existen'ce  is  a  "somber 
accident  between  two  infinite  states  of  unconscious- 
ness." "He  considers  life  an  affliction,  since  life  is  made 
up  of  arrfbition  an'd  passion;  and  he  maintains  that  the 
business  of  man  is  to  kill  desire.  At  times,  though,  he 
Is  haunted  with  the  fear  that  as  the  sun  and  the  planets 
are  destroyed  only  to  produce  new  globes,  so  death  is 
perhaps  but  a  birth  into  a  new  life  of  struggle,  in  a 
long  and  slow — in  an  everlasting — evolution  toward 
beatific  extinction  in  Nirvana.  The  Ecclesiast  has  said : 
"A  living  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion.  Except  eat- 
ing and  drinking,  all  is  but  shadow  and  smoke.  And 
the  world  is  old,  and  the  nothingness  of  living  fills  the 
bkck  tomb.  .  .  .  Ancient  lover  of  the  sun,  who  thus 
dost  groan,  inevitable  death  is  also  a  lie.     Happy  he 


10  French  Essays  and  Profiles 

who  might  engulf  himself  into  it  in  one  bound!  Al- 
ways, forever,  in  the  intoxication  and  the  horror  of  im- 
mortality I  listen,  terrified,  to  the  long  roar  of  the  eter- 
nal Life."  And  again,  "I  envy  thee  who,  in  the  calm  and 
black  grave,  art  free  of  life,  and  no  longer  doth  know 
the  shame  of  thinking  and  the  horror  of  being  a  man." 
Several  years  before  the  publication  of  the  two  poems 
here  quoted  from.  Sully  Prudhomme  had  given  expres- 
sion in  his  verse  to  his  dread  of  being  eternally  a  man 
— to  his  fear  of  immortality. 

It  is  in  the  poem  "La  Maya"  that  Leconte  de  Lisle 
pictures  his  philosophic  conception  of  the  universe  as 
nothing  but  a  system  of  illusions:  "Life  is  composed 
inexhaustibly  of  the  whirlpool,  without  end,  of  vain 
appearances";  and  yet  in  reality  (for  he  was  made  up 
of  contradictions)  he  treated  the  world,  in  general  and 
particular,  in  a  most  concrete  and  intractable  fashion. 

He  is,  therefore,  essentially  Brahmanic  or  Buddhist 
in  his  views  of  life  and  death.  He  would  ignore  the 
exisftence  of  God  and  the  soul,  and  any  supernatural  or 
mystic  powers,  as  these  terms  are  understood  by  the 
Christian  world.  In  his  eyes  Christianity  has  availed 
nothing — indeed  worse  than  nothing.  "Where  are  the 
promised  Gods?"  he  asks.  "Time,  O  Nazarene,  has 
accepted  Thy  challenge;  two  thousand  years  have  suf- 
ficed to  finish  a  God,  and  nothing  has  palpitated  in  his 
barren  ashes."  He  holds  that  Christ  was  a  despairing 
philosopher — one  who  uttered  "a  cry  of  distress  for 
the  last  time."  The  dogmas  and  practices  of  the 
Catholic  Church — Christianity — i-n  the  Middle  Ages 
are  held  up  in  contempt  and  terror  by  him  in  scores  of 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    ii 

pages.  These  were  hideous  centuries,  he  exclaims, 
"of  faith,  leprosy  and  famine,  of  the  doctrine  of  eter- 
nal damnation,  of  Jacques  Bonhomme  in  rags,  of  the 
persecution  of  the  Jews  and  the  Albigenses."  He 
exposes  to  view  the  old-time  cruelties  of  the  Church 
and  its  cloistral  systems  of  indolence  and  sensuality.  In 
"Le  Corbeau,"  a  raven  discourses  on  the  futility  of  the 
deluge  because  of  its  failure  to  wipe  life  completely 
from  the  earth's  surface.  It  is  perhaps  in  "Ka'i'n" 
though  that  Leconte  de  Lisle  shows  most  boldly  his 
antagonistic  attitude  toward  the  scheme  of  Christian- 
ity— a  scheme  which,  he  would  say,  has  troubled  the 
world's  repose  and  the  serenity  which  the  oriental  reli- 
gions had  been  cultivating  from  time  immemorial. 
The  poem  represents  the  dream  of  Thogorma,  son  of 
Elam.  It  is  the  vision  of  Cain  sleeping  the  sleep  of 
centuries  in  his  city  of  "Henokhia."  A  cavalier,  com- 
ing from  across  the  plains,  knocks  at  its  gates  and  cries 
out:  "Evil  to  thee,  silent  sleeper,  vile  flesh,  man  that 
the  eternal  vengeance  has  damned,  thou  who  hast  never 
believed,  never  hoped!" 

Whereupon  Cain,  the  Avenger,  awakes  and  would 
justify  himself,  saying: — Thy  assassin  is  the  divine 
iniquity,  not  I.  Jehovah  blinded  me  with  the  fire  of 
his  wrath.  I  should  have  loved  Eden,  but  I  was  dis- 
inJierited  from  it  before  my  time.  I  was  born  in  a  cry 
of  horror  in  the  brambles,  and  he  who  engendered  me 
reproached  me  for  having  lived,  and  she  who  conceived 
me  never  smiled  upon  me.  What  wrong  had  I  done? 
And  I  ask  of  the  implacable  Master,  What  care  I  for 
life    at    the   price   which   thou   sellest   it?      An    angel 


12         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

appeared  to  me  and  commanded  me  to  pray  and  pros- 
trate myself  before  this  Master  that  I  hate.  I  refused 
in  my  offended  and  tortured  dignity,  and  he  precipi- 
tated me  into  crime.  And  I  prophesy  that  man,  servile, 
mean,  envious,  will  multiply  after  the  flood;  that  God, 
jealous  and  lying,  will  demand  of  him  to  adore,  and  he 
will  refuse.  God  will  seek  to  destroy  the  human  race, 
but  I  will  resuscitate  the  submerged  cities;  and  the 
little  children  of  the  avenged  nations  will  laugh  in  their 
cradles,  not  knowing  his  name,  for  he  will  annihilate 
himself  in  his  sterility. — 

The  one  motto,  then,  which  expresses  the  funda- 
mental, all-absorbing  idea  around  which  groups  the 
Buddhist  cult  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  is: — I  hate  life  and 
all  life!  Passion,  instinct,  ambition,  hope  and  every- 
thing that  teases  human  action,  should  not  (he  de- 
clares) tempt  him  who  is  happily  on  the  course  toward 
impassibility,  for  they  are  all  devices  which  end  in  grief 
and  misery.  Nature,  he  announces,  is  a  decoration 
mutely  scornful  of  us;  man  is  a  vile  and  empty  coward, 
and  woman  is  false;  religions  which  inspire  anything 
except  the  desire  of  annihilation  and  the  practices  of  a 
resigned  despair,  are  cruel  deceptions. — 

We  are  confronted,  nevertheless,  with  all  that  verse 
wherein  the  poet  drops  his  creed  of  the  insensible  and 
gives  vent  to  the  cries  of  his  soul. 

Is  it  not,  one  may  ask,  but  the  spectacle  of  his 
enthusiastic  youth  in  conflict  with  his  pessimistic 
maturity  and  old  age?  For  he  frequently  refers  to  the 
happiness  of  his  young  years  when  all  was  the  prospect 
of  delight.     He  loved  then,  he  says,  the  fierce  war  of 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    13 

the  seas,  and  knew  the  beauties  of  hope  and  the  sensa- 
tions of  joy.  Yet  with  the  exception  of  the  illusions  of 
his  youth,  nothing  ever  seems  to  have  afforded  him 
satisfaction  save  the  thought  that  there  may  be  extinc- 
tion in  death.  He  exclaims  in  one  poem:  "The  secret 
of  life  is  in  the  closed  tombs;  that  which  no  longer 
exists  owes  its  state  to  its  having  existed;  and  the  final 
nothingness  of  beings  and  things  is  the  unique  reason 
of  their  reality."  "Nature  will  interrupt  the  din  of 
humanity  with  one  stroke,"  he  affirms  in  "Solvet 
seclum."  And  it  will  not  be  when  happiness  is  recon- 
quered under  magnificent  skies.  It  will  be  when  "the 
Globe  with  all  which  inhabits  it,  sterile  block  torn  from 
its  immense  orbit,  stupid,  blind,  filled  with  the  last 
outcries  .  .  .  staves  its  old  and  miserable  crust  against 
some  immobile  universe." 

In  this  wise  his  wrathful  reproaches  to  fate,  his 
despairful,  depressing  contemplations  on  human  des- 
tiny, freely  mingle  with  his  cult  of  the  impassible,  with 
his  religion  of  Nirvana.  And  all  this  storm  and  calm 
of  pessimism  are  due  to  the  fact,  as  he  gives  us  to 
understand,  that  the  ambitious  desires  of  his  youth 
have  not  been  gratified.  Yet,  if  we  probe  coldly  to 
the  naked  truth,  we  can  but  find  that  he  was  a  proud, 
disdainful  soul,  wrapped  in  a  colossal  egotism.  And 
as  he  seemed  as  a  poet  to  know  only  how  to  be  ungra- 
cious, and  to  put  his  hand  out  in  contempt  against  all 
men  and  things,  he  found,  to  speak  in  a  crude  way,  all 
hands  against  him.  For  there  is  not  a  word  in  his 
poetry  which  discloses  that  he  ever  truly  loved  a  person 
or  was  ever  loved  of  any  one.     He  does  not  offer  an 


14         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

exclamation  of  sympathy  or  tenderness.  No  sentence 
of  his  breathes  a  sweetness  of  heart  or  kindles  a  pity; 
nor  does  any  of  his  verse  give  the  feeling  that  it  is  the 
result  of  gentleness  outraged,  of  self-sacrifice  abused, 
of  true  nobility  crushed  down.  If  you  have  a  sorrow, 
the  comfort  you  get  from  his  volumes  must  be  strained 
out  of  the  brutal  response:  "Why  dost  thou  not  die, 
then,  miserable  coward?" 

Humanity,  especially  modern  humanity,  is  character- 
ized by  him  en  bloc  as  a  vulgar  dolt,  as  a  "ravenous 
plebeian."  In  our  age,  he  proclaims,  the  muses  are 
mocked,  divine  mendicants;  evil  is  at  its  full;  the  air  of 
the  century  is  bad  for  the  ulcerated  minds;  impure 
ugliness  is  the  queen  of  the  world.  In  short,  he 
addresses  to  the  nineteenth  century  his  sonnet,  "Aux 
Modernes"  (1872)  :  "Your  brain  is  empty  like  your 
bosom  .  .  ,  and  drowned  in  the  nothingness  of 
supreme  ennuis,  you  will  stupidly  die  in  filling  your 
pockets."  In  face  of  this  wholesale  ana'thema,  we  have 
his  most  flattering  and  unreserved,  though  cold,  tribute 
to  those  "modernes"  who  are  called  the  Parisians.  He 
says  in  "Le  Sacre  de  Paris":  "Star  of  nations,  Paris! 
Nurse  of  the  great  dead  and  celebrated  living,  vener- 
able in  the  face  of  jealous  centuries  .  .  .  offer  thy  free 
glory  and  thy  grand  agony  as  an  example  to  the  uni- 
verse." And,  too,  he  lays  an  exalted  tribute  at  the 
feet  of  Rome — Italy — in  his  poem  "A  I'ltalie." 

He  therefore  gives  frank  evidence,  in  spite  of  all  his 
pessimism,  that  the  human  race,  with  its  Rome  and 
Paris,  has  not  lived  in  vain  since  the  days  of  the 
Greeks;  nor  is  the  future  so  empty  as  he  would  have  us 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    15 

believe,  since  he  proclaims  that  France  is  at  the  helm 
of  modern  civilization.  Evidently  it  never  occurred  to 
him  to  try  to  reconcile  his  cult  of  the  impassible  with 
his  lofty  laudations  of  Greece  and  Italy.  Was  it 
because  Greece  was  grandly  impassible  that  "her  heart, 
overflowing  with  passions  on  fire,"  moves  his  raptures? 
Or  was  Rome  nobly  pursuing  the  insensible  when  she 
offered,  as  he  says,  the  illustrious  example  to  the  world 
of  her  lacerated,  palpitating  bosom,  and  her  lips  of 
gold  with  their  endless  sob? 

But  it  is  not  alone  the  disillusions  of  his  young  years 
that  explain  why  he  affected  to  curse  and  despise  our 
century  and  all  centuries  since  the  Greek  era.  In  his 
prefaces  he  gave  another  reason,  namely,  that  poetry 
has  not  followed  in  the  paths  marked  out  by  Homer, 
iEschylus  and  Sophocles.  Since  the  day  of  Sophocles, 
he  announced,  decadence  and  barbarism  have  invaded 
the  human  mind  and  killed  art.  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  had  shown  the  force  and  height  of  their  indi- 
vidual genius,  yet  their  language  and  conceptions  were 
barbaric.  And  he  declared  his  special  abhorrence  of 
the  modern  poets^ — the  Romantics — who  aired  their 
personal  woes  and  love  affairs  in  verse.  All  this,  and 
much  more,  the  poet  came  to  acknowledge  as  nonsense 
by  suppressing  his  prefaces  from  his  later  editions,  and 
formally  retracting  their  contents,  in  effect,  in  his  eulo- 
gium  of  Victor  Hugo  before  the  Academy.  For,  on 
this  occasion,  after  more  than  thirty  years,  he  pro- 
claimed Hugo — the  incarnation  of  all  that  is  barbar- 
ous and  deplorable  in  poetry  according  to  our  poet's 
previous  standards — the  equal  of  iEschylus.     As  the 


i6         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

talents  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  developed  more  and  more 
exclusively  into  admitted  non-Hellenic  realms,  he  must 
certainly  have  recognized,  after  a  time,  that  he  had  be- 
come professedly  a  barbarian  himself  and,  as  such,  was 
responsible,  so  far  as  he  well  could  be,  for  modern 
decadence,  since  he  was  infusing  the  barbaric  into  Greek 
ideals.  And  he  may  have  come  to  perceive,  too,  that 
his  achievements  had  been  made  possible  by  those  very 
Romantic  poets  whom  he  was  reacting  against  and 
despising,  and  that  his  poetic  fortune  was  the  product 
of  their  direct  legacies. 

Thus  he  sweeps  away  his  own  pessimistic  dicta  as 
often  as  he  brings  them  to  a  practical  and  personal  test, 
for  it  was  during  the  siege  of  Paris  that  he  wrote 
"Le  Sacre  de  Paris,"  when  the  city  was  merely  getting 
its  just  deserts,  judged  by  the  criteria  with  which  he 
tested  this  "assassinating  century."  And  it  was  in  his 
discourse  at  the  Academy  that,  after  his  numerous 
attempts  to  be  received  by  those  immortal  "modernes" 
whom  he  was  supposed  to  disdain,  he  returned  thanks, 
in  the  form  virtually  of  an  encomium,  to  the  modern 
world  in  general — the  humor  of  which  occasion  was 
very  properly  seized  by  his  recipient,  Dumas  the 
Younger. 

One  is  left  but  to  conclude  that  the  poet's  philosophy 
of  life  and  his  ideas  in  general  are  as  contradictory  and 
empty  in  vital  essence,  as  confirmed  by  his  own  pen,  as 
they  are  harsh  and  brutal  in  their  elegance.  He  can 
be  shown,  in  a  score  of  ways,  to  stand  conspicuously 
in  his  own  light,  with  a  certain  naivete  or  affectation  as 
colossal  as  are  his  solemnity  and  autocracy.    And  yet, 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    17 

as  poets  go,  he  must  pass  for  an  Intellectual  one,  for, 
while  he  is  neither  an  original,  complex  nor  subtle 
thinker,  he  does  reproduce  phases  of  thought  and  gives 
a  marked  intellectual  cast  to  many  of  his  poems;  and 
he  was  an  erudite.  What  one  notes,  however,  is  that 
the  French  poet  who  is  thus  to  be  singled  out  specially 
as  a  savant,  and  who  strove  to  introduce  the  intellec- 
tual into  the  realm  of  the  poetic  Muse,  is  perhaps  far 
less  rational  than  any  of  his  great  confreres,  as  meas- 
ured by  modern  standards. 

He  leaves  us  as  unconcerned  over  his  personal  verse 
as  over  his  enameled  lyrics.  As  he  has  no  sympathy 
for  us,  in  his  pachydermatous  spleen,  we  have  no  sym- 
pathy for  his  groans,  nor  any  interest  in  nor  serious 
respect  for  his  ideas.  They  are  both  and  all  the 
product  of  an  indolent,  slow-moving,  oriental  tem- 
perament anchored  in  the  Occident  (a  temperament 
which  tends  to  engender  pessimistic  disappointment  in 
an  egoistic  soul),  and  they  are  born  of  one  long, 
immense  huff  of  a  really  proud,  defiant  poet  to  whom 
blessings  and  honors  came  too  slowly  to  gratify  his 
ambitions.  And  yet,  with  all  this  mood  of  being  out 
of  joint  with  his  time,  and  with  all  the  affectation  in 
his  attitude  and  dogmatism,  there  was  a  kind  of  cour- 
age and  nobility  in  his  example — that  of  an  isolated 
and  challenging  personality,  who  appeared  to  ask  no 
favors  of  man  or  God,  and  granted  none.  This, 
together  with  his  barbaric  spirit  which  belonged  neither 
to  our  clime  nor  characteristically  to  our  century,  made 
him  a  figure  truly  and  notably  unique,  and,  in  a  sense, 
subhme,  as  he  pulled  back  sullenly  in  the  traces  of 


l8         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

modern  civilization.  And  as  a  result,  his  poetic  prod- 
uct is,  in  a  way,  as  striking  an  instance  as  Baudelaire's 
of  the  heautontimorumenos. 

He  has  been  called  a  "moderne"  by  contemporary 
French  critics  (in  their  reaction  against  the  idea  of 
their  predecessors  that  he  was  a  preterist),  because  he 
belongs  to  the  modern  school  of  pessimists,  and  is  a 
logical  link  in  the  chain  of  later  French  thought.  But 
this,  while  true  in  one  view,  seems  only  to  confuse  the 
meaning  of  things.  It  amounts  to  saying  that  he  was 
a  "moderne"  because  he  was  a  preterist.  Musset  and 
Sully  Prudhomme,  for  instance,  are  "modernes"  because 
their  poetic  temperaments,  sensibilities  and  themes 
belong  to  no  age  but  our  own.  The  ideals  of  Leconte 
de  Lisle,  on  the  contrary,  are  not  in  any  sense  inherent 
in  our  epoch — they  do  not  distinguish  it.  His  pessi- 
mism and  orientalism  are  as  old  as  history;  and  it  was 
precisely  by  extolling  the  past  and  seeking  to  bury  him- 
self in  it  that  he  endeavored  to  react  against  modem 
ideas  and  tendencies. 

And  finally,  to  pass  on,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  he 
does  not  follow  his  own  Buddhist  creed  and  cult,  for 
there  is  in  his  volume,  as  we  have  noted,  nothing  of 
that  love  and  pity  which  made  Gautama  announce  his 
doctrines  to  mankind.  The  poet  lacks  that  atmosphere 
of  infinite  kindliness  and  of  universal  charity  which  dif- 
fuses a  soft  fragrance  and  comforting  balm  in  Buddha's 
world.  By  contrast,  we  have  in  Leconte  de  Lisle  an 
elegant  epicure  of  brutality,  a  lover  of  the  insensate 
luxury  of  harsh  cruelties,  the  apostle  of  the  barbaric 
deadening  of  the  loftier  instincts  and  of  the  deafening 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    19 

of  the  finer  voices  of  duty.  One  of  the  great  and  wise 
men  of  our  era  gave  famifiar  expression  to  the  modern 
impulse  toward  tolerance  by  saying  that  he  did  not 
know  how  to  draw  an  indictment  against  a  whole 
nation.  Leconte  de  Lisle  sought  to  draw  an  indictment 
against  Man,  Woman,  Nature  and  God,  in  a  heartless 
and  sumptuous  display  of  verse. 

He,  then,  introduced  to  the  realm  of  French  poetry 
something  of  the  Buddhist  philosophy  and  scheme  of 
life.  In  this  he  merely  put  a  Hindoo  garb  around  the 
pessimism  of  Vigny,  only  that  he  reversed  the  Vigny 
attitude  by  hating  "the  majesty  of  human  sufferings" 
and  worshiping  implacable  Nature  and  Space,  whence 
the  explanation  that  humanity,  compared  with  Nature, 
occupies  little  place  in  his  poetic  output.  In  like  man- 
ner, he  gave  a  new  dress  to  Baudelaire's  theme  of 
fatalistic  heredity  and  to  his  black  twisting  demon  of 
ennui,  and  also  to  Sully  Prudhomme's  thesis  about  the 
shuddering  thought  of  immortality.  He  did  cast  the 
writings  and  tortures  of  the  one,  and  the  refined 
hyperesthesia  of  the  other,  in  a  barbaric  calm  and 
indifference — in  a  Buddhist  impassibleness.  To  the 
love  and  concern  of  the  Romantic  school  for  frail 
humanity  and  its  enthusiastic  ephemeralities,  he  op- 
posed the  love  and  cult  of  the  insensibly  eternal  and 
distant — of  the  inanimate  things  of  beauty  which  give 
pleasure  without  pain,  because  they  neither  change  nor 
die. 


20         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

PHYSICAL   AND    INNER    SENSIBILITIES 

The  poetic  product,  considered  as  one  body,  of 
Leconte  de  Lisle  is  like  a  behemoth  lying  in  the  sun, 
and  giving  once  in  a  while  an  evidence  of  life.  Here 
and  there  his  verse  shows  a  twitch  of  existence  and  a 
use  of  the  sensory  organs.  Most  of  these  awakenings 
of  his  physical  sensibilities  (observed  in  the  thirty  of 
his  poems  already  referred  to)  are  found  in  the  middle 
portion  of  the  "Barbares."  His  favorite  way  of  mak- 
ing us  perceive  that  his  immobile  beasts  are  living,  is  by 
referring  to  their  occasional  twinges  of  "comfort"  or 
discomfort.  He  offers,  too,  here  and  there  a  glimpse 
of  a  lizard,  hot  with  the  fires  of  noon,  his  flight  spark- 
ling through  red  grass.  In  "Les  Jungles"  we  feel  the 
awful  heat  and  torpor  of  noontide  in  India.  In  "Le 
Desert,"  a  flaming,  endless  sky  and  plain  are  present  to 
our  consciousness.  We  hear  now  and  then  some  lone- 
some beast's  cry  piercing  the  stillness  of  the  night.  At 
times  one's  sense  of  smell  seems  seized  with  a  burning 
perfume  or  an  aroma  of  "live  flesh";  and  in  the  last 
two  lines  of  "Le  Sommeil  de  LeTlah,"  our  salivary 
glands  are  tempted. 

It  is  thus,  in  brief  moments  and  at  long  intervals, 
that  we  see,  hear,  feel,  smell  and  taste  in  the  verse  of 
Leconte  de  Lisle.  It  is  thus  that  his  East,  with  its 
splendors  of  furnaced  desert,  of  shining,  hot,  brass 
skies,  of  baked  silence — in  a  word,  the  superb  realm  of 
the  vertical  sun — is  reflected  in  certain  of  his  poems. 
In  this  phase  he  merely  extends  Hugo's  great  world 
of  physical  sensibilities  into  the  East,  for  Leconte  de 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    21 

Lisle,  alone  of  the  major  French  poets  (if  we  except 
Baudelaire) ,  has  given  us  the  feeling  of  the  true  tropics. 

Following  Hugo,  too,  he  had  a  particular  gift  for 
immensity,  and  with  it,  naturally,  a  slowness  and 
heaviness — his  East  is  never  light-winged  nor  swift. 
He  gives  us  the  sense  of  tremendous  expanses  across 
the  earth's  surface  and  space;  he  makes  enormous  bulls 
loom  in  his  stanzas;  magnificent  carnivora  haunt  there, 
and  huge  birds  wheel  slowly  in  solitary  flights — all  add- 
ing a  fitting  notion  of  stolidity,  tedium  vita  and 
brutish  epic  dimension,  to  the  Boeotian  inertia  of  his 
verse.  In  "Les  Elephants"  there  is  a  real  and  massive 
effect  of  a  troop  of  monstrous  elephants  in  the  very  act 
of  unsettling  the  equilibrium  of  a  desert  and  troubling 
the  tranquil  symmetries  of  its  horizon.  We  seem 
conscious  that  these  colossuses  have  passed  by — that  a 
gigantic  mass  has  moved  across  the  level  of  this  poem, 
which  begins  and  ends  with  the  flatness  and  stillness  of 
an  infinite  waste  of  sand.  The  sense  of  size  and  of 
outdoor  immensity,  and  the  effect  of  making  the  trop- 
ical sun  burn  in  that  portion  of  his  verse  which  is 
vibrant,  and  scintillate  on  his  enameled  pages  as  if  on 
glaring  porcelain  surfaces  at  noon — these,  and  these 
alone,  are  the  commanding  results  which  the  physical 
sensibilities  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  seem  to  offer. 

His  inner  sensibilities  are  simple  and  primitive.  His 
emotions  are  behemoth-like.  They  are  apt  to  be 
aroused  by  the  bellowings  of  bulls;  for  the  poet  says  in 
"Les  Bucoliastes" :  "Laugh  of  woman  and  song  of 
lark  at  dawn  are  sounds  soft  to  the  ear  and  often 
desired;  but  nothing  equals  the  amorous  and  sonorous 


22         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

voice  of  a  three-year-old  bull  that  bellows  across  the 
meadows."  This  bovine  sentimentality  will  appear 
ridiculous  to  the  reader,  but  it  is  a  logical  part  of  the 
poet's  adoration  of  beasts  and  his  contempt  for  human- 
kind. The  roar  of  animals  across  lonesome  wastes  and 
down  the  silent  depths  of  thick,  tropical  forests,  and 
similar  barbaric  effects,  awaken  in  him  vague,  elephan- 
tine regrets  akin  to  purely  physical  sensibilities,  and 
they  produce  the  charm  of  his  true  barbaric  disposition. 
For  beasts,  and  for  the  vast,  melancholic  array  of 
Eastern  skies  as  they  glow  across  the  plains  of  his  soul, 
the  sufferings  and  tenderness  of  man,  woman  and  child 
are  disdained  and  ignored.  These  big-girted,  almost 
inert,  longings  and  mournfulnesses,  together  with  his 
pessimistic  hatreds  and  curses,  comprise  the  sum  and 
substance  of  the  verse  which  his  inner  sensibilities 
genuinely  inspire. 

His  women  are  either  enameled  objects  suitable  to 
his  ornate  and,  therefore,  sumptuous  lyrics,  or  are 
lifeless,  scenic  forms,  as  in  his  epopees,  or  are  fitted  in 
a  general  way  to  an  impersonal,  insensible  Muse.  In 
a  very  few  poems  he  gives  the  personal  turn  of  a  poetic 
lover  to  his  verse,  but  this  is  always  a  patent  conven- 
tionality. He  seemed  absolutely  denuded  of  the  true 
sentiment  for  living  woman;  and  it  was  not  a  question 
of  choice  with  him.  The  proof  of  his  attempt  and 
failure  to  be  a  love  poet  is  seen  in  several  poesies  found 
in  his  early  editions  and  since  suppressed.  Among 
them  "Les  Bois,"  for  instance,  is  an  illustration  of 
the  sheer  commonplaceness  he  displayed  when  he 
attempted  to  be  a  sentimental  lover. 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle  23 

This  is  not  all.  He  affected  to  despise  woman  from 
principle  as  bitterly  as  Vigny — not,  of  course,  the 
grand,  impassible  goddess  types  like  the  Venus  of 
Melos  or  Hypatia,  but  woman  who  is  the  mother, 
sister,  wife,  daughter.  He  refers  to  the  theme  only 
in  two  brief  expressions.  One  of  them  is  a  character- 
ization of  love  as  the  "falsehood  of  a  moment,"  and 
the  other  is:  "Woman  is  much  more  bitter  than  the 
tomb."  He  discloses  in  "La  Vipere"  his  inability, 
shared  by  certain  of  his  confreres,  to  conceive  of 
woman  other  than  as  one  of  two  extremes :  a  lofty, 
non-existent  type  to  be  adored  like  a  goddess  of  liberty 
— a  white  vision  of  a  cold  virgin;  or  a  mere  corporeal 
creature  signifying  that  love  is  physical,  and  as  such 
tends  to  baseness. 

Woman,  the  living  and  spiritual  companion  of  man, 
was  unknown  to  Leconte  de  Lisle.  There  are  his 
"Le  Manchy"  and  several  other  poems  where  his 
physical  view  of  her  is,  as  it  were,  refined,  idealized. 
But  here  she  still  exists  only  in  the  body,  only  by  reason 
of  her  external  charms,  garb  and  surroundings:  his 
conception  of  her  Is  never  relieved  nor  elevated  by  any 
of  the  mental,  moral  and  soulful  aspects  which  enter, 
in  Sully  Prudhomme,  into  her  higher  and  truer 
realizations. 

Hence  he  is  by  no  means  absolutely  impassible,  for, 
although  he  is  not  a  poet  of  sensitive  flesh  and  heart 
strings  like  Musset,  he  is  not  insensible  like  a  stone.  It 
was  his  aim  to  produce  a  decided  degree  of  insensibility 
on  the  nerves  of  modern  poetry.  And  so,  whenever 
emotivity  is  set  astir  in  his  pages,  it  is  that  of  a  lower 


24         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

order  of  life — of  big  animals  or  lazy  Buddhist  devo- 
tees. The  charm  of  the  slight  phase  of  sentimentality 
in  the  last  stanza  of  "Le  Manchy,"  so  much  quoted  to 
show  that  he  Is  not  impassible,  lies  in  its  exotic  and 
immobile  flavor,  because  it  is  a  very  primitive  and 
formal  type  of  sentiment  for  this  modern  epoch  which 
excels  in  the  complex,  keen,  and  varied  representations 
of  emotional  life. 

Likewise,  his  art  of  verse  is  impersonal  compared 
with  that  of  Musset,  yet  it  is  by  no  means  as  imper- 
sonal as  it  would  have  been  if  he  had  only  written  In  the 
style  of  his  "Hypatie  and  Cyrille."  His  personality 
is  revealed  distinctly  in  his  pages.  Their  comparative 
Insensibility  is  his  own  comparative  individual  insensi- 
bility; and,  too,  he  has  not  avoided  the  use  of  personal 
pronouns.  But,  taking  his  volumes  as  a  whole,  they 
make  for  impassibility  in  a  most  eminent  degree :  his 
great  attempt,  as  represented  by  four-fifths  of  his 
poems,  Is  to  cap  his  nerves  with  the  cement  of  Indiffer- 
ence and  "mute  pride,"  and  to  let  no  humanity  (to  fol- 
low the  hint  of  the  famous  line  of  Lamartine)  beat 
under  the  thick  coating,  or  shining  scaly  armor,  of  his 
verse. 

IMAGINATION   AND   FANCY 

Parnasslanism,  as  Illustrated  In  the  main  by  Leconte 
de  Lisle,  tends  to  emasculate  Imagination,  for  It  would 
deprive  the  imaginative  of  emotion.  The  decorative 
art,  since  it  should  present  a  certain  evenness  of  sur- 
face, shuns  the  vivid  employment  of  distance,  perspec- 
tive, heights  and  depths,  and  all  the  proper  Imaglna- 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle  25 

tive  effects.  In  "Kain"  we  observe  the  manner  in  which 
the  imaginative  quality  is  affected  by  the  concern  for 
decorative  aims  and  for  the  technical  coating  of  this 
verse.  The  flood  scene  in  the  last  stanzas  of  the  poem 
is  an  example  of  how  factitious  ornateness  can  destroy 
a  dream.  The  same  is  true  of  Leconte  de  Lisle's  lyric 
verse  where  his  art  is  akin  to  that  of  enameling,  as  will 
be  noted  farther  on.  Glazed  processes  of  all  kinds 
necessarily  chill  and  kill  imagination  and  fancy  because 
both  are  sacrificed  to  the  prudence  required  by  the 
mechanical  necessities  of  the  glazed  art.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  porcelain  painting  is  largely  confined  to 
copyings.  Fancy  in  Leconte  de  Lisle's  pages,  there- 
fore, is  neither  creative,  lively,  gay,  versatile  nor 
feather-winged.  It  never  captivates  with  sudden 
charm. 

But  to  this  general  statement  there  is  a  grand  excep- 
tion which  shows  that  he  was  endowed  with,  and  could 
display  magnificently,  the  imaginative  faculty.  The 
exception  may  be  observed,  as  we  have  remarked,  in 
about  one-fifth  of  his  verse  where  his  emotions  heave 
heavily,  and  the  pageantries  of  the  East  pass  into  our 
souls.  Here,  with  the  aid  of  a  carefully  wrought  style, 
he  opened  up  for  the  imagination  the  colossal  vision  of 
the  sun-burned  tropics. 

ARTISTIC  AND  ESTHETIC  SENSIBILITIES 

Leconte  de  Lisle's  admiration  of  the  inanimate  uni- 
verse is  not  a  return  to  the  Classic.  It  is  merely 
Romanticism   insensibilized   and   decorated,   since   the 


2.(y         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Romantic  love  of  the  spectacle  of  the  universe  and  of 
the  exotic  is  the  jond  of  his  art.  In  this  evolution  from 
the  Romantic  to  the  artistic — to  Parnassianism — his 
name  is  not  chronologically  the  first  one  in  France. 
The  year  his  first  volume  appeared  (1852)  some  of 
the  "Emaux  et  Camees"  of  Gautier  were  put  forth  in 
book  form.  It  was  indeed  Gautier  who,  in  the  verse 
which  he  had  been  publishing  for  twenty  years,  gave 
birth  to  the  Parnassian  idea;  but  as  he  was,  in  a  sense, 
toyishly  content  with  his  tiny  cameos  and  their  exquis- 
ite impeccableness,  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  Leconte  de  Lisle, 
with  the  East  in  his  eyes,  to  lead  the  Parnassian 
school. 

In  inquiring  briefly  into  the  nature  of  his  artistic  and 
esthetic  sensibilities  as  they  are  exhibited  in  his  poetry, 
we  should  separate  his  verse  into  two  general  kinds : 
the  epic  and  the  lyric.  His  decorative  epic  verse  is 
usually  of  the  sort  seen,  for  instance,  in  Cormon's 
"Cain"  in  the  Luxembourg,  or  in  Bonnat's  fresco  of 
St.  Denis  in  the  Pantheon.  In  the  one  case  it  is  dryly 
effaced  and  sterilized;  in  the  other  it  is  characterized 
by  bold,  hard  schemes  of  masses  and  colors,  being  full- 
bodied  and  solidly  tangible.  Since  our  poet  exhibited 
a  marked  concern  for  the  fabrication  of  verse,  and,  in 
his  best  examples,  for  the  fine  juxtaposition  of  ele- 
ments that  are  congruous  to  his  theme,  it  is  his  techni- 
cally realistic  and  artistic  processes  which  engage  the 
main  attention.  He  has  the  considerable  honor  of 
standing  as  the  representative  in  poetry  of  all  that 
latter-day  French  epic  wherein  the  aim  for  scientific 
and   esthetic  truth  dominates.      In   this  treatment  of 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle  27 

epopees  he  owes  little  if  anything  to  Hugo,  for  the 
epic  poetry  of  the  latter  is  conceived  and  composed 
wholly  on  Romantic  plans. 

It  was  Hugo  and  not  Leconte  de  Lisle,  however, 
who  introduced  the  epic  Muse  into  modern  French 
poetry,  and  fully  developed  it  in  various  phases  almost 
before  Leconte  de  Lisle  had  published  the  "Antiques." 
For  instance,  there  is  Hugo's  Napoleonic  epic  at  Its 
height  in  the  "Expiation"  (1852),  while  the  epic  in 
Leconte  de  Lisle  did  not  evolve  until  several  years 
after.  The  lyrical  and  descriptive  verse  came  first  in 
the  development  of  his  poetic  talents.  Hugo  was  the 
first  modern  French  poet  to  write  famous  epopees,  but 
those  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  are  of  a  different  species. 

His  decorative  art  in  its  lyric  form  displays  his  love 
for  Eastern  ornament  and  elegance,  for  the  enameled 
blaze  of  violent  colorations.  It  has  revealed  a  realm 
of  flamboyant  gorgeousness.  This  is  proper  to  his 
barbaric  theme,  and  one  may  well  ask,  What  modern 
poet  has  given  the  world  such  a  resplendent  volume  of 
oriental  verse  as  the  "Barbares,"  or  Indeed  the 
"Tragiques"  ? 

It  is  the  fashion  at  present  to  offer  wholesale  praise 
of  his  erudite  care  for  local  color  and  for  scientific  and 
artistic  truth,  and  he  merits  in  these  respects  great 
tributes  because  of  his  influence  and  his  achievements, 
In  contrast  with  the  Ignorance  of  the  Romantics.  It 
should  be  pointed  out,  however,  that  his  artistic  proc- 
esses and  erudition  are  often  false  and  unscientific, 
judged  by  the  standards  of  to-day,  when,  grace  to  him 
as  much  as  to  any  one,  the  world  has  become  more 


28         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

exacting  in  these  matters.  Take  his  use  of  colors.  He 
does  not  always  employ  them  with  a  knowledge  of 
scientific  values,  and  brings  into  barbaric  and  unedu- 
cated display  hues  which  have  no  affinity  for  one  an- 
other. Possibly  he  had  this  partially  in  mind  when,  as 
is  reported,  he  very  correctly  referred  to  himself  on 
one  occasion  as  a  "luministe"  rather  than  a  "coloriste." 
In  other  words,  he  is  apt  to  employ  tints  like  a 
decorator  of  porcelain.  He  will  say,  for  instance: 
*'A11  her  charming  body  shines  like  a  lily  in  the  violets." 
Why  violettcsf  Because  it  rimes  with  the  handelettes. 
Of  course  this  produces  a  disagreeable  effect  on  any 
one  familiar  with  the  values  of  color.  Violet  has  no 
sympathy  for  the  white  of  the  lily  or  of  flesh.  The  only 
excuse  which  may  be  offered  is  that  he  is  not  describing 
life  here  but  a  "medal." 

We  could  easily  show  how  he  mixes  the  East  into  his 
Greece,  and  Greece  into  his  North.  Hydromel,  rose- 
colors,  naked  women,  laughing  springtide  nature, 
florid  dawns,  vermilion  air,  are  frequently  his  material 
in  his  verse  on  the  North.  In  "Christine,"  Septentrio- 
nality  is  only  indicated  in  the  "black  pines."  Other- 
wise the  setting  of  the  poem  is  austral.  Elves  are 
defined  usually  as  northern  sprites  which  are  supposed 
to  haunt  hills  and  wild  spots;  but  in  his  "Les  Elfes"  we 
have  "prairie  elves"  dancing  on  a  plain  and  crowned 
with  thyme  and  marjoram  which  are  not  distinctly 
northern  plants.  The  certain  impuissance,  or  sterility, 
which  reigns  over  so  much  of  his  verse  is  due,  in  part 
at  least,  to  this  hybridism.  By  contrast,  the  artistic 
and  educated  skill  of  Gautier,  under  all  such  tests,  was 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle  29 

faultless  so  far  as  he  went,  for  he  was  in  reality  an 
artist  first  and  a  poet  afterward. 

No,  the  rare  value  of  the  artistic  and  esthetic  sensi- 
bilities, as  displayed  by  Leconte  de  Lisle,  lies  elsewhere. 
It  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  he  united  emotion  and 
imagination  with  mentality — the  mentality  which  is 
shown  by  erudite  and  scientific  groupings  of  verse.  In 
Hugo  we  have  the  extreme  where  emotion  and  fancy — 
the  vast  and  the  vague — sweep  over  the  artistic  and  the 
microscopically  technical.  In  Gautier,  there  is  the 
opposite  extreme  where  the  artistic,  and  the  niceness 
of  term,  exclude  almost  all  else.  In  his  pages  the  clear- 
ness of  contour  destroys  the  expanse  of  fancy  and 
reduces  all  to  a  miniature  domain.  But  in  the  thirty 
poems  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  to  which  we  have  been 
referring,  we  find  a  union  of  emotion  and  vision  with 
regular  and  patient  construction  of  verse.  Here  the 
immense  spaces  of  a  strong  imagination  are  wedded  to 
careful  execution — the  result  giving  precision  of  out- 
line to  sense  of  size.  He  falls  short  of  Hugo  for  the 
one  series  of  qualities,  and  does  not  equal  Gautier  for 
absolute  impeccability  as  an  artist;  but  he  offers  to  the 
modern  French  Muse  of  poetry  the  first  signal  example 
of  a  juste  milieu — a  just  middle  ground. 

Hereof  consists  the  supreme  interest  of  his  artistic 
and  esthetic  role.  It  represents  the  blending  in  out- 
door life  of  technical  Naturalism,  or  Realism,  with 
expanding  Idealism.  One  feels  that  these  pages  reflect 
the  true  East,  the  real  tropical  sun,  its  genuine  color, 
and  that  the  poet  has  studied  his  animals  from  a  near 
view  with  something  of  a  realistic  truth;  and  yet,  at 


30         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

the  same  time,  he  makes  emphatically  for  Idealism  in 
all  its  length  and  breadth,  uniting  therewith  scholarly, 
artistic  minuteness,  general  conformation  to  theme, 
scient^c  use  of  language.  It  is  thus  that  he  sought  to 
wed  reality  with  ideality.  It  may  be  called  the  mar- 
riage of  science  and  poetry.  The  same  is  to  be  said, 
however,  of  Gautier,  while  noting  that  Gautier  dwelt 
in  the  artistic  domain  and  not  in  the  veritable  universe 
like  Leconte  de  Lisle.  The  remark  follows  that  it  is 
in  Parnassianism  that  the  great  modern  realm  of 
science,  with  its  severe  methods  of  observation  and 
exactness,  has  made  Its  impress  on  that  of  French 
poetry. 

There  are  In  Leconte  de  Lisle  no  Impressionist  uses 
of  hazes  and  fogginess^ — the  effects  of  air  which  throw 
a  sweetness,  tenderness  and  mystery  around  themes. 
His  penchant  for  the  bold,  brilliant  sunlight  close  at 
hand  was  too  great  to  permit  this.  But  it  may  be  said 
that,  while  the  French  Impressionist  manipulations  of 
light  may  be  traced  in  poetry  directly  to  Baudelaire 
in  their  shadowy  and  darker  schemes — in  their  chiaro- 
scuros— on  the  other  hand,  with  respect  to  the 
Impressionist  fondness  for  noon  scenes  and  love  of 
direct,  vibrant  sunlight,  one  finds  perhaps  a  natural 
and  original  source  in  the  effects  of  the  blaze  of  the 
perpendicular  sun  in  the  verse  of  Leconte  de  Lisle.  In 
comparison  with  him,  Hugo's  uses  of  sunlight,  non- 
tropical as  they  naturally  were,  pale  In  intensity  and 
splendor.  But,  nevertheless,  back  of  both  Baudelaire 
and  Leconte  de  Lisle  stood  Hugo  with  his  nights  and 
his   noons;    and   without   this   grand   precursor,   who 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle   31 

made  all  things  possible  to  the  modern  French  poet, 
neither  Baudelaire  nor  Leconte  de  Lisle  could  have 
been  what  they  are. 


STYLE 

It  scarcely  need  be  said  that  style  in  his  pages  is  a 
sort  of  mechanical  business  wherein  the  Mor  lima 
dominates  over  impulse  and  spontaneity.  As  a  result, 
on  the  whole,  his  tropes  are  very  commonplace  and 
flatten  out  the  sense  and  Imagery.  But  it  is,  for  this 
reason,  rare  indeed  that  a  metaphor  leads  him  Into  a 
rhetorical  error  as  In  the  sixth  stanza  from  the  last  in 
"Kain"  where  we  have :  "The  sea  went  on,  striding 
at  one  fold  of  its  swell  .  .  .  the  last  cries."  He  dis- 
plays force  of  style  strikingly  now  and  then  as  In  the 
sonnet  "Aux  Modernes."  In  his  decorative  epic  verse, 
as  seen  at  its  best  in  "Kai'n,"  there  is  a  decided  sense  of 
strength;  but  herein  he  follows  and  does  not  greatly 
surpass  Vigny.  The  verse  in  "Kain"  is  so  factitious, 
so  little  possessed  of  vital  vigor,  that  the  strength  it 
has  seems  that  of  a  great  bronze  manikin.  In  effects 
of  mere  size,  masslveness  and  expanse,  he  is  unap- 
proached  by  any  of  his  confreres^ — always  excepting, 
of  course,  Victor  Hugo. 

But  It  is  to  the  quality  of  elegance  that  Leconte  de 
Lisle  gives  greatest  heed  In  his  style.  His  style  prop- 
erly partakes  of  his  artistic  and  barbaric  temperament, 
and  gives  us  displays  of  profuse  gorgeousness  rather 
than  examples  of  finely  discriminating  choice  and  Its 
refined  chariness — that  Is  to  say,  heaviness  and  stolidity 


32         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

of  adornment  rather  than  delicacy,  grace  and  variety. 
His  rhetorical  elegance,  therefore,  means  especially  a 
beautiful  appearance,  signifying  that  language  is 
selected,  as  far  as  possible,  for  its  richness  of  look 
and  sound.  And  he  succeeds  perfectly  in  this  wealth  of 
enameled  rime  and  glazed  galore,  as  in  the  poem 
"La  Verandah"  and  many  other  poesies,  where  costly 
splendors  reign  in  amazing  realms  of  sumptuous  glory. 
To  turn  an  instant  to  his  Hellenic  world.  It  seems 
impossible  to  Imagine  a  deeper  crust  of  decorative 
Greek  beauty  laid  on  verse  than  in  "Le  Vase."  In 
this  domain  of  polychrome  luster,  Leconte  de  Lisle 
surpasses  all  French  poets.  Here  lies  his  distinguish- 
ing triumph  of  style.  His  elegance  would  offset  any 
disagreeable  effect  of  the  stereotyped  processes  of  his 
lyric  verse,  and  of  the  declamatory  pose,  stilted  gesture, 
and  empty  colloquy  which  so  freely  haunt  his  epopees. 
His  glazed  art  consists  of  the  attachment  to  a  set  of 
rimes  of  a  comely  or  gorgeous  vocabulary  which  dis- 
plays Its  uniform  variety  like  a  kaleidoscope. 

We  have  all  along  referred  to  his  language  as  enam- 
eled. This  best  describes  the  peculiar  temper  of  his 
poetry  taken  as  a  whole,  and  especially  of  his  lyric 
verse.  His  rime  is  usually  spoken  of  as  marmorean 
or  bronze.  It  appears  too  scintillating  and  highly  col- 
ored for  bronze  like  that  in  "Les  Destinees"  of  Vigny; 
nor  does  it  suggest  the  light,  clicking,  marble  blocks 
of  Gautier's  stanzas.  But  on  the  vases  and  paintings 
in  the  museum  at  Sevres,  one  may  trace  out  and  feast 
his  eyes  on  the  glamored  sceneries  of  Leconte  de  Lisle. 
His  pages  possess  the  glaze  and  radiance  of  enameled 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    33 

porcelain.  They  are  somehow  inspissated  and  not 
translucent — they  appear  covered  with  an  impermeable 
gloss.  This  corresponds  to  the  concreteness  of  the 
sculpturesque  style  of  Gautier — concreteness  of  style 
being  a  Parnassian  trait.  And  there  seems  something 
peculiarly  fitting  in  this  firing  process  of  verse-making 
when  the  theme  is  the  burning  East. 

The  decorative,  ornate  feature  which  dominates 
every  other  element  of  style  in  Leconte  de  Lisle  is,  then, 
substituted  for  those  living,  vivid,  vital,  powerful  quali- 
ties which  are  the  glory  of  Hugo.  Words  that  burn 
the  lips  and  thrill  with  keen  life,  verse  that  is  a  "living 
body,"  and  all  the  highest-typed  rhetorical  gifts  which 
distinguish  the  greatest  poetry,  are  foreign  as  a  whole 
to  the  art  of  Leconte  de  Lisle.  His  words  in  courting 
beauty  court  emptiness — a  truly  barbaric  vacancy  of 
look  and  hollowness  of  sound.  Instinctive  grace,  flexi- 
bility, airiness,  swiftness  and  the  charm  of  the  sudden 
and  unexpected,  as  well  as  the  great  inspired  Hugo- 
esque  qualities,  are  not  native  to  the  pen  of  Leconte  de 
Lisle.  His  verse  is  static  rather  than  in  motion,  dense 
not  fragile,  opaque  not  pellucid,  vitreous  or  vitrified  not 
ethereal,  and  seems  incapable  of  a  mellowing  patina. 
His  great  and  unique  gift  to  the  French  language  is 
seen,  however,  when  we  pose  this  question  :Who  before 
his  day  would  ever  have  imagined  that  the  French 
idiom  could  be  made  to  reflect,  with  such  wealth  of 
broad,  daring  glare,  the  immense  brilliancy  and  flaming 
prismatic  colorations  of  the  tropics?  The  "Barbares" 
are  mirific  pages  of  enameled  magnificence,  with  here 
and  there  a  heavy  sign  of  a  colossal  life  underneath. 


34         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

CONCLUDING   COMMENT 

Looking  at  the  poetic  talent  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  in 
its  totality,  one  easily  remarks  how  it  is  based  on, 
and  is  a  direct  outgrowth  of,  the  characteristics  of  the 
Romantic  school.  His  East  is  a  continuation  of  the 
oriental  phase  of  Romanticism,  and  his  dominating 
love  of  Nature  is  born  of  Victor  Hugo.  His  Buddhism 
is  a  natural  feature  of  his  East,  and  is  a  pantheistic 
admiration  of  the  impassible  immensities  of  Space, 
quite  akin  to  Hugo's  commanding  pantheistic  admira- 
tion of  the  calm  Firmament,  but  with  the  substitution 
of  peace  in  Nirvana,  as  the  ultimate  expression  of 
Space,  for  Hugo's  peace  on  the  bosom  of  God,  as  the 
ultimate  expression  of  the  Firmament.  The  inner  and 
physical  sensibilities  and  imagination  of  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  as  displayed  in  that  certain  fraction  of  his  poetry 
where  he  really  gives  the  true  force  and  glory  to  his 
East,  are  Hugo's  own  offspring  in  all  that  there  is  of 
native  love  of  immensity,  of  fondness  for  huge  beasts, 
and  of  other  natural  features.  He  continues  the 
Romantic  cult  of  environment,  and  exaggerates  it  to 
an  extreme,  since  he  confines  himself  almost  wholly  to 
it.  His  adoration  of  externals,  of  the  universe,  of  the 
outward,  and  his  comparative  disregard  of  the  inner 
world,  are  but  duplications  of  Hugo's  gifts  for  Nature, 
for  contours,  for  that  which  is  without,  rather  than  for 
the  study  and  portrayal  of  character,  the  penetration 
of  the  inward  life,  the  conception  of  interesting  and 
masterly  personages.     In  all  these  latter  phases  Hugo 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    35 

was  weak,  yet  at  the  same  time  he  loved  and  wor- 
shiped Man  as  well  as  Nature. 

The  point  of  departure  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  from 
Romanticism,  and  the  basis  of  his  poetic  art,  lie  funda- 
mentally in  his  hate  of  Man  and  of  the  living  sensi- 
bilities, and  in  his  corresponding  love  of  the  artistic 
for  its  own  impassible  sake  and  domain.  The  key  of 
his  philosophy  and  Parnassianism  is  to  be  found  in 
his  famous  "Midi":  "Man,  if  you  believe  in  and  love 
the  luxuries  of  joys  and  sorrows,  flee  the  blazing  noon, 
for  Nature  is  empty  and  the  Sun  consumes — nothing 
lives  here,  nothing  is  sad  or  joyous.  But  If  you  are 
undeceived  as  to  the  vanities  of  life,  and  thirst  to  forget 
this  agitated  world,  and  wish,  knowing  neither  how  to 
pardon  nor  to  curse,  to  taste  a  supreme  and  dejected 
voluptuousness,  come  and  seek  the  Sun's  blaze,  for  He 
will  speak  to  you  in  sublime  words.  Absorb  yourself 
in  His  implacable  flamings!" 

Thus  as  Hugo,  in  his  tender  love  and  pity  of  hu- 
manity, softens  his  pages  with  twilights,  with  evenings, 
with  night  and  Its  starry  firmament  and  the  more  re- 
clusive, gentle,  God-Inspiring  aspects  and  phases  of 
Nature,  as  the  fit  accompaniment  to  the  human  joys  and 
fears  which  fill  his  verse,  so  Leconte  de  Lisle,  in  his 
disdain  of  humankind,  pours  upon  his  poems  the  open, 
fierce,  relentless  blaze  of  the  tropical  sun,  whose  effect 
he  rarely  relieves  and  makes  tender  by  dusks  and 
shadows.  This  he  converted  into  Parnassianism,  to 
wit:  the  love  of  the  eternal  forms  of  beauty  that  do  not 
fade,  and  the  love  of  toil  over  the  perfecting  of  elegant 


36         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

verse.  "La  forme  est  tout,  le  fond  n'est  rien" — the 
form  is  everything,  the  content  nothing — was  a  formula 
which,  it  is  said,  Leconte  de  Lisle  often  repeated;  and 
herein  he,  for  his  part,  illustrated  a  return  from  the 
Romantic,  which  was  exotic  to  France,  to  the  French 
love  and  talent  for  form  and  the  artistic. 

Again,  he  has  shown  how  poetry  can  be  a  science  as 
well  as  an  art,  and  why  a  versemaker  should  be  a  man 
of  culture  and  erudition,  thus  opposing  the  Romantic 
idea  that  poets  should  be  children  of  Nature,  depend- 
ing on  their  own  impulses  and  inspirations.  He  illus- 
trates, in  some  thirty  of  his  poems,  the  quite  evenly 
balanced  combination  of  living  sensibilities  and  imagina- 
tion on  one  hand  and,  on  the  other,  purely  artistic  sensi- 
bilities and  the  severe  mechanics  of  verse — truly  a  not- 
able, a  unique,  performance,  and  one  fraught  with 
great  benefits. 

Furthermore,  his  poetry,  which  followed  in  the  main 
the  only  new  course  left  open  after  the  Romantics,  has 
exercised  a  strong  and,  in  a  way,  very  wholesome  reac- 
tion against  that  Romanticism  which  drifted  into  hyper- 
esthesia and  loathsome  Realism.  And  at  the  same  time 
he  displayed  a  brutality  (excused  in  a  measure  by  his 
elegant  striving  for  the  artistic)  as  pronounced  as  that 
of  Baudelaire  and  the  Realists. 

We  have  merely  tried  in  these  pages  to  outline  some 
of  the  reasons  why  the  name  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  is  to 
be  regarded  as  the  most  momentous  one  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  French  poetry  since  the  epoch  that  gave  flight  to 
the  genius  of  Hugo,  Lamartine  and  Musset — a  name 
that  stands  for  the  Parnassian  school  as  Hugo's  stands 


Poetic  Legacy  of  Leconte  De  Lisle    37 

for  the  Romantic.  It  has  not  been  the  purpose  here  to 
attempt  to  expand  the  merits  and  revel  in  the  glories 
of  this  Parnassianism;  nor  to  show  how  this  neutral 
conception  of  the  poetic  art,  as  a  business  of  "regular 
toil,"  tends,  with  its  almost  exclusive  regard  for  ex- 
ternals, to  drag  the  poetic  Muse  down  to  artificial,  imi- 
tative and  non-individualistic  processes. 

We  have  noted  how  imitative  Leconte  de  Lisle  was. 
He  partook  freely  of  Hugo;  found  his  ideas  in  his  com- 
panion poets;  came  after  Gautier  in  his  theory  and 
practice  of  the  artistic  and  the  love  of  the  beautiful; 
paraphrased  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets;  and  boldly 
imitated  any  one — even  the  unique  powers  of  Baude- 
laire. His  lines  which  are  patterned  after  the  fashion 
of  Hugo  are  countless,  and  his  style  in  a  very  general 
way  finds  a  striking  precedent  in  Vigny.  In  a  word, 
as  one  who  belongs  to  the  Occident  naturally  conceives 
of  all  the  sphere  of  grand  poetry  with  its  peerless  peaks 
and  ranges  of  human  interest,  he  would  seem  justified 
in  saying  that  the  poetic  product  of  Leconte  de  Lisle 
is  to  be  compared  with  the  total  output  of  verse  as  is 
the  art  of  porcelain  painting  with  that  of  Rembrandt 
and  Velazquez. 

But  if  at  times  you  weary  of  the  fatigues  and  sor- 
rows of  being  a  mortal,  and,  following  the  precept  of 
the  "Midi,"  can  barbarize  yourself  sufliciently  to  be- 
come buried  for  a  time  in  a  realm  of  Eastern  and  lone- 
some splendor  whose  very  imperturbation  and  empti- 
ness are  a  proud  solace,  bathe  yourself  for  a  half  day 
in  the  tropical  sun  and  strength  of  these  calm  pages  of 
spacious  verse,  and,  forgetting  the  agitations  and  sen- 


189825 


38         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

sitiveness  of  weak  human  life  and  its  petty  ambitions, 
defeats,  vanities,  contemplate,  in  these  exotic  monoto- 
nies of  immobile  sky  and  desert,  the  glory  of  that 
which  is  implacably  beautiful  and  does  not  suffer  nor 
pass  away.  You  will  then  have  tasted  a  truly  barbaric 
mood  and  a  genuine  poetic  and  esthetic  pleasure.  You 
will  then  have  experienced  something  of  the  impassible 
and  sumptuous  absorption  into  the  extinction  of 
Nirvana. 


ii.     The  Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE   FRENCH 
ROMANTICS 

MADAME  MARIE  MENNESSIER-NODIER 

THE  one  great,  soul-stirring  date  in  the  history 
of  French  letters  is  February  25,  1830.  A 
brother  of  Hamlet  and  Faust  was  then  born 
to  France  at  the  Theatre  Frangais — Hernani !  At  last 
emotion  and  imagination  (which  had  given  poetry  to 
England  and  music  to  Germany)  had  seized  the  canvas 
of  French  literature  and  from  their  depths  and  heights 
of  Mystery,  of  the  Impossible  and  the  pitifully  Mortal, 
were  massing  and  contrasting  immense  protrusions,  per- 
spectives and  chiaroscuros  of  sentiment,  tenderness  and 
fantasy,  where  all  had  largely  been  grisailles,  or  hue- 
less  level  surfaces  decorated  with  a  faultless  and  chilled 
technic. 

The  echoing  horn  of  Hernani  announced  to  the  races 
of  earth  that  French  belles-lettres  were  now  to  inspire 
an  interest  magnificently  human  rather  than  mental  and 
artistic.  The  young  men  and  women  of  1830,  *who, 
as  M.  Legouve  remarks,  had  a  particular  cachet  as 
had  the  revolutionists  of  '89,  are  the  first  group  of 
people  in  the  Parisian  humanities  to  step  bodily  out  of 
their  books,  grasp  us  by  the  hand  and  say,  "We  too 
are  of  flesh  and  blood."     They  are  not  effaced  per- 

41 


42         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

sonages  eclipsed  from  their  pages  into  imponderable, 
griseous,  neutral  entities,  but  are  our  own  real  brothers 
and  sisters  upon  whom  the  word  French  does  not 
inexorably  stamp  a  nameless,  alien  meaning.  For  the 
volumes  from  their  pens  are  our  passing  selves. 
Youth  burns  in  them  and  Death  trails  his  horror.  Their 
stanzas  and  paragraphs  sigh  and  cry  out  with  frailty 
and  sin.  In  them,  illusion  nurses  longings  for  the  un- 
heard-of, and  fancy  paints  the  distant  and  exotic.  In 
them,  too,  the  sun  shines,  flowers  breathe  forth  their 
perfumes,  storms  rage,  and  all  nature,  life,  love,  lib- 
erty, individuality  stand  forth  in  tremendous  or  in  com- 
passionate action.  We  do  not  approach  these  living 
authors  merely  to  admire  and  acquire,  for  we  cherish 
them  with  a  vivifying  affection  because  we  are  conscious 
that  they  suffered  and  died. 

Thus  the  literary  Anglo-American  sojourner  in 
France  comes  in  time  to  feel  for  that  famous  old  even- 
ing of  Hernani  a  personal  affection  like  that  which 
always  haunted  the  melancholy  Gautier.  It  was  then 
that  Parisian  literature  became  affianced,  for  a  time 
at  least,  to  our  own,  and  throbbed  with  a  heart  that 
is  our  heart.  Not  only  is  it  the  one  notable  national 
date  in  late  French  letters:  it  is  also  the  one  notable 
international  literary  event,  whose  signification  may 
not  be  fully  interpreted  until  a  century  or  more  shall 
have  passed. 

But  the  Theatre  Frangals  was  only  the  scene  of  the 
denouement.  It  is  by  no  means  there  that  the  belated 
Romantic  in  Paris  should  love  to  linger  for  associations. 
His  "chateau  de  souvenir"  is  not  where  Hernani  fought 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     43 

his  fight  in  public,  but  it  should  be,  specifically,  the 
room  where  the  revolutionary  bandit  of  Victor  Hugo 
was  cradled  in  infancy  and  trained  to  grandiose  ado- 
lescence. This  room  was  the  nursery  of  the  French 
Romantics  for  six  years,  and  their  home  for  two  dec- 
ades, or  until  about  1844,  when  their  reign  had  begun 
to  close.  It  was  the  salon  of  Charles  Nodier,  and  sur- 
passes, for  the  value  of  its  literary  career  and  influence, 
perhaps  any  other  French  salon.  Here  was,  in  reality, 
"the  grand  cenacle."  Doubtless  no  room  anywhere 
exists  that  can  be  compared  with  the  Nodier  parlor 
both  for  the  number  and  fame  of  its  literary  friends 
and  for  its  colossal  impulse  to  letters  and  art.  Here 
the  Romantic  French  novel  and  conte  found  their  first 
and  most  faithful  devotees,  and  this  was  true  also  of 
the  French  Romantic  Theater  and  school  of  painting 
and  school  of  music  with  its  Henri  Reber  and  his  Ger- 
manic melodies.  Here,  too,  the  modern  French  love 
for  Gothic  architecture  was  bred.  And  here  modern 
French  poetry  soared  in  its  fledgling  flights. 

It  is  quite  surprising  that  this  great  salon  is  unheard 
of  in  America.  While  many  books  and  essays  are  writ- 
ten by  Americans  on  the  French  salons  of  previous 
centuries,  none  is  penned  on  the  salon  of  Charles  No- 
dier in  the  second  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Yet  more  about  it  can  be  known,  for  Parisian  authors 
have  paid  tribute  to  it  in  scores  of  enthusiastic  and 
lovely  pages  of  verse  and  prose.  It  seems  desirable,  in 
consequence,  that  an  attempt  be  made  to  remedy  in 
part  this  lapse  in  our  literary  history. 

So,  if  you  wish  to  idle  for  a  summer's  day  in  this 


44         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Parisian  domain  of  Romanticism,  let  us  set  off  on  a 
morning's  quest  of  the  Nodier  parlor  in  its  ancient 
quarter  of  Paris,  and,  leaving  behind  the  rude  noise 
and  bustle  of  the  boulevards,  slip  into  the  footsteps  of 
its  memories,  and  dream,  in  its  haunts,  of  a  glorious 
past.  To  find  the  room,  we  must  hunt  the  rue  de  Sully 
— a  certain  lonely  little  street  that  lies  between  the 
Bastille  and  the  eastern  point  of  the  He  St.  Louis.  Its 
southern  side  is  flanked  by  the  monotonous  faqade  of 
the  grim-visaged  Arsenal,  an  almost  forgotten  pile  of 
the  sixteenth  centur}^  Old  fashioned  bas-reliefs  of 
angry-mouthed  artillery  pieces  scowl  at  us  from  above 
its  doors  and  carve  their  Latin  inscriptions  into  our 
notice.  Through  the  leafy  tree-tops  along  the  rear 
of  the  edifice,  one  catches  glimpses  of  richly  hewn  mor- 
tars lining  the  heights  of  the  cornice  and  belching  forth 
their  wealth  of  sculptured  flame  in  a  sumptuous  display 
that  recalls  the  ornate  Renaissance  front  of  the  Hotel 
de  la  Valette  hard  by. 

The  west  pavilion  of  the  Arsenal  is  regal  because 
of  its  role  in  the  life  of  Henry  IV  and  Sully;  for  within 
it  were  restored,  not  many  years  ago,  the  king's  cabinet 
and  bedchamber  known  traditionally  as  the  "cabinet 
of  Sully."  This  apartment,  where  Henry  loved  to  steal 
in  peace  from  the  din  of  his  court,  is  of  the  most  elab- 
orate ornamentation,  and  is  said  to  be  perhaps  the  com- 
pletest  and  finest  specimen  extant  of  the  French  interior 
decorative  art  of  the  seventeenth  century.  But  we  have 
not  come  to  search  a  prince's  nook,  nor  view  a  seat  of 
royal  games  and  acts,  nor  read  the  precious  volumes 
of  Henry's  love  letters  to  "Mon  cher  coeur"  which  he 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     45 

carefully  indited  in  his  best  hand  with  here  and  there 
an  honest  blot  to  show  how,  like  some  ardent  school- 
boy, he  had  screwed  down  over  his  pretty  task.  Nor 
have  we  strayed  hither  to  see  the  old,  bethumbed  psalter 
of  St.  Louis,  or  the  Terence  of  the  due  de  Berry,  or  the 
Bible  of  Charles  V,  or  to  visit  the  great  yellow-volumed 
library  of  the  Arsenal  (the  second  largest  bibliotheque 
in  France)  with  its  pungent  smell  of  leather  and  its 
ten  or  fifteen  habitues  browsing  drowsily  over  antique 
tomes. 

We  have  come.  Instead,  to  open  the  fourth  door  of 
the  fagade,  mount  six  steps,  and  then  an  ancient,  aban- 
doned stairway  whose  plain,  forlorn  majesty  sweeps 
the  dust  of  its  oblivion  into  our  clothes  and  thoughts 
at  every  turn.  At  the  end  of  its  first  flight  we  open 
the  door,  walk  in,  and  find  ourselves  in  the  quondam 
abode  of  the  Nodier  family. 

We  cannot  do  better  than  trace  out  the  rooms  and 
locate  their  former  appointments  with  the  aid  of 
Amaury  Duval,  who  was  one  of  the  most  devoted 
guests  here  during  all  those  years.  Let  us  quote  from 
his  description  of  the  Nodier  soirees  and  comment  as 
we  edge  along,  so  that  we  may  have  the  former  scene 
fully  before  our  eyes. 

"After  traversing  a  rather  narrow  antechamber,*  one 
entered  the  large  dining  room.  It  was  lighted  by  a 
little  lamp  placed  on  the  stove."  « 

This  room  is  almost  empty  now.  It  faces  north  on 
the  rue  de  Sully.  Its  walls  are  of  wood  carved  in  a 
kind  of  Louis  XIV  style,  and  were  latterly  painted 
a  yellowish  brown.     Entering  from  the  east,  we  see  on 


46         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

the  opposite  side  the  chimney  recess  where  the  stove 
stood.  A  bust  of  some  abbe  of  local  and  modern  note 
adorns  the  spot,  for  the  rooms  at  present  serve  the 
needs  of  the  Arsenal  library.  "It  is  here  by  the  stove 
on  a  table  near  the  wall  that  the  guests  left  their  hats, 
mantles,  overcoats  and  umbrellas.  Few  of  us  could 
afford  the  luxury  of  a  cab;  but  neither  rain  nor  snow 
could  keep  away  the  charming  young  girls  and  their 
intrepid  dancers."  From  the  south  side  of  the  dining 
room  "the  guest  walked  through  a  little  passage,  came 
to  the  door  of  the  salon,  turned  the  knob  as  if  he  were 
at  home — and  entered."  Here  indeed  is  the  selfsame 
corridor — small,  dark,  forsaken.  We  find  the  door 
knob  and  we,  too,  pass  into  the  famous  room. 

At  our  right  on  the  north  side  of  the  salon,  on  the 
panel  that  faced  the  windows,  was  placed  above  a  can- 
opy the  portrait  of  Nodier  by  Guerin.  In  the  north- 
west corner  stood  the  statue  of  Henri  IV  as  a  child, 
molded  after  the  original  of  Bosio,  On  the  west  side 
was  the  fireplace,  with  the  fauteuil  of  baron  Taylor, 
the  founder  of  the  Societe  des  artistes,  at  the  north 
end,  and  at  the  south  end  the  armchair  of  Nodier,  just 
in  front  of  which  was  the  "eternal  card  table."  Then 
came  the  door  to  the  chamber  of  Nodier,  on  the  other 
side  of  which  was  his  study  adjoined  in  turn  by  a  little 
room  where  books  and  various  domestic  things  were 
stored.  On  the  south  side  of  the  salon  were  the  two 
immense  windows  reaching  to  the  floor.  They  opened 
on  a  small  iron  balcony  which  looked  out  upon  an  arm 
of  the  Seine  and  the  He  Louvier.  The  wall  between 
the  windows  was  relieved  by  a  Scottish  landscape  from 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     47 

the  brush  of  Regnler,  a  friend  of  the  household.  Un- 
derneath It  was  stationed  a  console  supporting  a  plas- 
ter bust  of  Victor  Hugo.  Those  who  spun  a  conte,  or 
distilled  from  their  lips  the  dewy  fervor  of  their  verse, 
usually  stood  before  the  console,  rubbing  their  backs 
unconsciously  against  the  bust  so  that  in  time  its  nose 
became  black.  This  discolored  member  was  one  of 
the  familiar  themes  of  amusement  of  the  family  and 
its  intimates. 

On  the'east  side  of  the  salon,  and  next  to  one  of  the 
windows,  there  was  a  door  which  opened  Into  a  kind 
of  anteroom  whence  one  entered  the  chamber  of 
Madame  Nodler.  In  the  middle  of  the  east  wall  there 
was  the  large  recess  which  harbored  the  old-fashioned 
square  piano.  "The  two  paintings — the  Regnier  and 
the  Guerin — were,  together  with  a  clock  In  the  style 
of  1820,  the  only  ornaments  of  this  room.  Its  ancient 
and  sculptured  woodwork  was  painted  white.  The  ap- 
paratus for  lighting  the  room  was  as  simple  as  the 
rest:  two  lamps  on  the  chimney  mantel  and  two  Ar- 
gand  lamps  flanking  the  Nodier  portrait.  I  may  add 
that  these  two  Argands  often  gave  Marie,  the  charm- 
ing daughter  of  the  house,  occasion  to  mount  lightly 
on  a  chair  in  the  attempt  to  correct  their  capricious 
flames  at  the  risk  of  disengaging  a  pretty  foot  to  view." 
The  upholstery  of  the  six  fauteulls  and  of  the  canopy 
was  red  cassimere,  and  the  twilled,  or  double-miiled, 
curtains  of  calico  at  the  windows  were  also  red.  Thus 
the  defiant  color  of  Romanticism  was  contrasted  against 
the  peaceful,  domestic  background  of  the  white  walls. 

Nowadays  the  apartment  presents  a  wholly  different 


48         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

appearance.  The  walls  are  hidden  by  deep  shelvings 
filled  with  volumes,  and  In  the  center  there  Is  an  enor- 
mous, improvised  stand,  or  table,  whereon  books  and 
manuscripts  lie  strewn  about.  For,  the  room  is  now  a 
part  of  the  Arsenal  Library  proper,  and  is  only  known 
to  the  employees  and  to  them  very  little.  The  apart- 
ment is  about  twenty-five  feet  square  and  the  ceiling 
is  some  thirty  feet  high.  The  ceiling  was  much  lower 
in  the  epoch  of  the  Nodiers,  for  a  false  floor  then  cut 
the  room  horizontally  Into  two  unequal  parts  in  order 
to  form  of  the  upper  a  mezzanine  having  chambers  for 
Mademoiselle  Marie  and  the  servants.  There  remain 
to-day  the  white  woodwork  sculptured  in  Louis  XV, 
the  chimney  place,  and  the  polished  old  oak  floor  so 
Intimately  known  for  years  to  the  feet  of  countless  great 
personages. 

The  recess  has  disappeared,  and  with  It,  of  course, 
the  famous  piano  which  Liszt  was  the  first  to  open  for 
Marie.  All  the  furniture  has  long  since  strayed  from 
these  haunts.  Some  of  it  is  still  in  the  possession  of 
the  Mennessler  family.  They  have,  too,  the  Guerin 
portrait  of  Nodler.  It  is  painted  in  the  English  style 
of  this  master's  Chateaubriand  and  of  the  Lamartlne 
of  Decaisne,  as  if  the  subjects  were  Englishmen  rather 
than  Frenchmen.  The  six  chairs  and  the  bergere  have 
been  lost  to  trace,  but  the  family  have  preserved  un- 
altered the  six  fauteulls,  and  indulgently  had  one  of 
them  brought  down  one  day  from  the  attic  to  gratify 
my  curiosity.  It  was  an  oak  chair  In  the  cut  of  the 
Empire,  maintaining  its  Imperial  air  despite  dust  and 
neglect.     Its  dark  red  upholstery  was  trimmed  around 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    49 

the  borders  with  yellow  stripes  which  were  half  torn 
off  and  dangling. 

Through  the  windows  of  the  Nodier  salon  we  may 
saunter  on  the  balcony  where  the  melancholy  Nodier 
used  to  sit  and  watch  the  sunsets  bathe  the  neighboring 
towers  of  Notre  Dame.  The  little  branch  of  the  Seine, 
the  row  of  poplars  along  its  bank,  and  the  He  Louvier 
have  vanished,  and  now  a  spacious  though  quiet  boule- 
vard sweeps  by.  Beyond,  through  the  trees,  one  spies 
extensive  wood  and  coal  yards.  All  this  forms  at  pres^ 
ent  as  lonesome  a  quarter  as  in  the  time  of  the  Nodiers, 
but  the  scene  was  more  poetic  then.  In  those  decades 
the  mark  of  the  country  was  upon  the  spot.  Frogs 
croaked  of  summer  evenings,  the  humid  fragrance  of 
idle  water  diffused  a  lazy  dreaminess,  and  the  surround- 
ings had,  as  Madame  Mennessier  wrote  in  after  years, 
"a  rustic  tint,  both  lonely  and  serene." 

And  the  soirees!  Only  on  Sundays  did  the  family 
receive  in  the  salon ;  on  other  days  friends  were  invited 
into  the  chamber  of  Madame  Nodier.  On  those  cele- 
brated Sunday  evenings,  Dumas  the  Elder  tells  us, 
conversation  and  recitations  were  the  rule  from  eight 
until  ten  o'clock,  and  dancing  and  cards  from  ten  until 
one.  If  Nodier  arose  and  backed  up  to  the  fireplace, 
it  meant  a  story.  "Then,"  Dumas  recounts,  "we 
laughed  in  advance  at  the  conte  which  was  ready  to 
come  out  of  that  mouth  so  ingeniously  lined  with  "fine 
mockeries.  We  grew  silent,  and  there  unrolled  from 
his  tongue  one  of  the  charming  incidents  of  his  youth — 
a  tale  that  seemed  a  novel  of  Longus  or  an  idyl  of 
Theocritus.    It  was  at  once  Walter  Scott  and  Perrault. 


50         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

.  .  .  When  done,  Nodier  let  himself  slip  down  softly 
into  his  big  fauteuil,  smiled,  and  turned  to  Lamartine 
or  Hugo  with  :  'Enough  of  prose ;  some  verse.  Come  ! 
Come !  Some  verse !'  One  or  other  of  the  poets  would 
rise  and  recite  a  poem  while  placing  his  hands  on  the 
back  of  his  armchair,  or  squaring  his  shoulders  against 
the  paneling.  The  applause  at  an  end,  Marie  sat  down 
at  the  piano,  and  a  brilliant  fusee  of  notes  broke  forth 
upon  the  air.  This  was  the  signal  for  the  contredanse. 
We  ranged  the  chairs  and  fauteuils,  the  card  players 
retired  to  the  corners,  and  those  who  preferred  to  talk 
to  Marie  and  not  dance  slipped  Into  the  alcove.  No- 
dier was  one  of  the  first  at  the  card  table.  From  this 
moment  he  annihilated  himself  in  his  hand,  and  was 
completely  forgotten.  For  a  long  period  he  would 
play  only  batallle,  pretending  to  be  of  a  superior  force 
at  this  game;  but  at  length  he  made  a  concession  to 
the  fashion  of  the  day  and  patronized  ecarte." 

One  characteristic  of  the  soirees  is  referred  to  by 
nearly  every  habitue  who  has  written  of  them.  Am- 
aury  Duval  described  it  as  follows:  "A  party  of 
ecarte  (the  stake  never  exceeded  ten  sous)  took  place 
in  silence  in  a  corner  of  the  salon,  and  was  interrupted 
only  by  the  occasional  loud  cries  of  Nodier  exclaiming 
against  the  bad  luck  which  never  failed  to  pursue  him. 
About  ten  o'clock  he  would  raise  himself  slowly  out  of 
his  chair  and  disappear  into  his  chamber  through  the 
door  behind  him.  This  room  had  no  other  entrance 
except  from  his  study  on  the  opposite  side.  After  a 
few  moments  we  saw  Madame  Nodier,  with  a  warming- 
pan  in  hand,  appear  from  the  door  of  her  chamber,  and 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    51 

traverse  the  groups  of  dancers  on  the  way  to  the  room 
of  her  husband.  The  contredanse  stopped  long  enough 
to  let  her  pass;  and  these  tender,  domestic  attentions 
had  nothing  vulgar  in  our  eyes." 

Such  were  these  evenings  in  their  early  and  more 
famous  period — from  1825  to  about  1833.  Sainte- 
Beuve  said  that  they  had  "the  atmosphere  of  poetry, 
of  grace  and  of  indulgence" ;  and  Dumas  the  Elder 
thus  recalled  them  :  "Do  you  remember  our  Vigny  who 
at  that  epoch,  perhaps,  anticipated  his  transfiguration 
but  deigned  yet  to  mix  with  men?  Do  you  remember 
Lamartine  standing  before  the  fireplace  and  letting  roll 
to  our  feet  the  harmonies  of  his  verse?  Do  you  re- 
member Hugo  as  he  looked  at  and  listened  to  Lamar- 
tine? Hugo,  alone  among  us,  had  the  smile  of  equality 
on  his  lips.  And  all  the  while,  Madame  Hugo,  play- 
ing with  her  beautiful  hair,  reclined  under  the  canopy  as 
if  fatigued  with  the  part  of  the  glory  which  she  sus- 
tained." 

And  Musset,  for  his  part,  picturesquely  hit  off  the 
gatherings  in  the  rue  de  Sully  in  blithe  and  well-known 
stanzas  addressed  to  Nodier. 

The  charm  of  these  soirees  certainly  lay  in  the  youth- 
ful enthusiasm  and  admiration  which  every  one  here 
felt  for  the  other.  These  were  happy  reunions  of  per- 
sons who  were  bound  together  by  a  common  triumphant 
impulse,  and  who  were  immensely  fond  and  proud*of 
one  another.  It  was  this  joyous  ardor — the  memories 
of  which  throb  with  a  glorious  exultation  in  the  belated 
Romantic  heart — that  gave  the  fated  "Classics"  their 
cue  to  carom  hopeless  jests  against  the  walls  of  the 


52         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Arsenal.  Did  not  gossips  describe  these  newfangled 
people  in  the  rue  de  Sully  as  too  gushing  to  praise 
Hugo's  recitations  of  verse  in  ordinary  terms  such  as — 
superb — magnificent?  They  could  only  punctuate  his 
flights  with  such  expressions  as — Cathedral! — Ogive! 
— Pyramid  of  Egypt ! 

Of  the  soirees  in  their  last  decade  a  writer  weaves 
this  glimpse  into  our  fancies:  "Nodier  invited  me  to 
his  Sunday  reunions,  and  I  took  care  not  to  forget  his 
invitation.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  cordial. 
They  play,  they  sing,  they  even  dance  occasionally. 
Above  all,  they  converse  in  a  delightful  fashion.  Hugo, 
Lamartine  and  Musset  passed  along  on  that  route  and 
left  a  perfume  of  genius  and  poetry.  But  why  search 
so  far  in  the  past?  For  Poetry  herself  is  still  there. 
She  is  Nodier's  daughter,  Marie — Madame Mennessier 
— who  realizes  for  the  pleasure  of  both  eyes  and  ears 
all  the  grace  and  esprit  of  her  father.  Amaury  Duval 
has  just  painted  her  portrait,  yet  it  has  not  reproduced 
her  charm.  Painting  alone  cannot  render  it:  it  needs 
also  to  be  interpreted  by  poetry  and  music — arts  which 
she  herself  understands  so  well,  for  she  writes  winning 
verse  and  composes.  Besides  she  has  a  magnificent  con- 
tralto voice.  One  should  hear  her  sing  'La  Captive'  of 
Hugo,  the  melody  by  Reber!  I  have  not  yet  dared  to 
approach  her  and  talk  with  her  for  she  is  always  sur- 
rounded with  people.  Her  groups  of  young  women 
and  habitues  are  so  gay  and  mirthful  that  they  frighten 
my  susceptible  timidity.  I  converse  only  with  Nodier, 
and  with  Madame  Nodier  who,  also,  has  a  great  deal 
of  esprit. 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     53 

*'The  soirees  doubtless  were  not  what  they  had  been 
ten  or  fifteen  years  before.  The  battle  had  been  won. 
The  chiefs  had  dispersed  and  rarely  came  to  these 
Sunday  reunions.  Excepting  the  days  of  the  ball,  the 
gatherings  were  of  an  intimate  character.  I  found 
there  constantly  the  same  faces  of  old  and  young 
friends.  The  older  men  collected  around  Nodier's  card 
table;  the  young  people  formed  a  more  animated  circle 
around  Madame  Nodier  and  her  winsome  daughter, 
both  of  whom  were  escorted  by  a  staff  of  young  women 
as  gay  and  spirituelles  as  themselves.  Toward  the 
end  of  the  evening  we  grouped  about  the  piano.  Reber 
would  play  some  of  his  compositions,  or  accompany 
Madame  Mennessier  as  she  sang  one  of  his,  or  one 
of  her  own,  melodies;  for  the  daughter  of  Nodier  had 
received  at  birth  all  gifts.  Besides  possessing  an  orig- 
inal beauty  and  an  exceptional  mind,  she  was  an  accom- 
plished musician,  and  a  poet  like  her  father.  At  car- 
nival tide  the  salon  was  transformed;  they  danced  there 
in  costumes  of  Mardi  Gras.  Nothing  could  be  more 
inviting.  I  still  see  Dumas  dancing  vis-a-vis  his  young 
son  who  already  was  sparkling  with  wit." 

How  all  literary  and  artistic  France  shone  here  in 
this  salon!  Not  all,  indeed,  for  Balzac  and  Gautier  did 
not  come  to  these  soirees,  although  friends  of  the  No- 
dier family;  nor  did  Chateaubriand,  Madame  Re- 
camler,  Stendhal,  George  Sand,  Chopin  nor  Heine. 
But  we  may  paint  in  our  fancies  the  pictures  of  the  sev- 
eral groups  that  were  wont  to  grace  this  room  we  are  in 
and  lend  glory  to  its  gayeties  and  intimacies.  And  in 
the  foreground  may  be  placed  Victor  Hugo,  Lamar- 


54         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

tine,  Musset,  Dumas  the  Elder,  Sainte-Beuve,  Dela- 
croix, and  Vigny. 

Then  there  is  to  be  added  the  rare  duster  of  amiable 
and  lovely  women!  The  most  conspicuous  among 
them  was  Madame  Hugo,  both  by  reason  of  her  im- 
posing beauty  and  of  the  celebrity  of  her  husband, 
whose  followers  adored  him  as  a  veritable  god.  Other 
renowned  figures  in  the  scene  were  Madame  Segalas, 
the  duchesse  d'Abrantes,  and  the  two  leading  French 
poetesses  of  the  nineteenth  century — Madame  Tastu 
and  Madame  Desbordes-Valmore,  And  to  grace  the 
whole  display  were,  of  course,  Madame  Nodier  and 
her  daughter. 

But,  after  all,  those  oM  soirees  were  scarcely  more 
attractive  than  the  simple  family  life  of  the  Nodiers. 
Homespun,  instinctive,  whole-souled  was  its  daily  charm 
— a  charm  which  was  ever  blending  with  that  of  the 
Sunday  reunions  too  warmly  and  thoroughly  to  en- 
courage the  attempt  to  separate  existence  here  into 
two  distinct  phases.  How  gratifying  this  impossibility 
to  tell  just  where  the  domestic  life  ended  and  the  salon 
life  began,  or,  indeed,  to  say  that  there  was  aught  but 
the  first  and  that  once  a-  week  it  overflowed  into  the 
reception  room !  Dumas  the  Elder  tells  us  of  the  daily 
manner  in  which  dinner  used  to  follow  its  informal 
course  here : 

"The  family  of  Nodier  consisted  of  his  wife,  his 
daughter  and  his  sister-in-law.  At  six  o'clock  the  table 
was  spread.  To  the  plates  for  the  family  three  or 
four  were  added  for  the  regular  guests.  Once  admitted 
into  the  amiable  intimacy  of  the  household,  you  went 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     55 

there  to  dine  whenever  you  pleased.  If  two  or  three 
plates  had  to  be  arranged,  they  were  arranged;  if  the 
table  had  to  be  lengthened,  it  was  lengthened.  And 
woe  to  him  who  entered  and  made  the  thirteenth,  for 
he  was  mercilessly  forced  to  eat  at  a  little  side  table, 
unless  by  chance  another  diner  came  and  released  him 
from  exile. 

"I  was  soon  one  of  the  intimates  of  the  house,  and 
my  seat  at  table  was  once  for  all  fixed  between  Madame 
Nodier  and  Marie.  When  I  appeared  at  the  door,  I 
was  received  with  cries  of  joy,  and  every  one  seized  me 
by  the  hands  and  welcomed  me.  At  the  end  of  a  year, 
that  which  was  only  a  fact  became  a  right.  My  chair 
was  kept  vacant  for  me  until  the  first  courses  were  re- 
moved, when  the  giving  of  it  was  hazarded  to  another; 
but  he  who  filled  it  always  relinquished  it  to  me  even 
if  I  did  not  reach  the  Arsenal  until  dessert.  .  .  .  Thus 
we  arrived  at  the  end  of  a  charming  dinner  where  all 
accidents,  save  bread  placed  wrong  side  up,  were  taken 
philosophically.  .  .  .  Then  Madame  Nodier  rose  and 
went  to  light  the  salon.  As  I  did  not  drink  coffee,  I 
often  accompanied  her,  and  my  height  was  of  great 
service  to  her  in  lighting  the  lamps." 

Madame  Hugo  gives  us  this  description  of  Nodier 
and  his  wife  and  their  daily  life :  "Nodier  was  usually 
to  be  found  in  his  wife's  chamber,  where  he  received 
his  friends  after  dinner  with  a  luminous  smile  c^n  his 
hollow  cheeks.  It  was  a  simple  room,  waxed  and  shiny, 
with  some  portraits  on  the  walls.  One  entered  as  if 
he  were  at  home,  Nodier  not  rising  from  his  chair. 
His  wearied  body  was  half  doubled  up  and  his  long 


56         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

legs  crossed  as  if  they  dared  not  separate.  His  trous- 
ers did  not  reach  his  feet;  his  arms  were  as  fatigued  as 
his  body;  and  his  hands  were  thin,  cold  and  discolored. 
And  from  this  lank  figure,  this  awkwardness,  this  neg- 
ligence, there  disengaged  an  inexplicable  charm.  This 
immense  spider  spun  an  invisible  web  wherein  all  peo- 
ple, from  children  to  grand  poets,  were  caught:  it  was 
his  grace. 

"Sitting  vis-a-vis  Nodier  was  Madame  Nodier,  with 
her  dainty  feet  half  escaping  from  under  her  gown. 
Easy  of  approach,  winning,  smiling  for  her  pretty  teeth, 
she  received  every  one  with  equal  pleasure.  She  never 
disclosed  any  vanity  of  social  distinction  nor  of  personal 
merit.  She  gave  her  illustrious  guests  none  of  those 
noisy  attentions  which  are  injurious  to  the  humbler 
visitors.  Her  face,  alert  and  radiant  like  a  bouquet, 
enlivened  and  refreshed  one's  sight.  Her  compact 
beauty,  scrupulous  toilet,  neat  intelligence,  corrected 
and  completed  the  general  laisser-aller  of  Nodier.  It 
was  an  admirable  example  of  precision  by  the  side  of 
nonchalance. 

"One  was  fortunate  indeed  to  find  Nodier  talking — 
no  one  will  ever  talk  like  him.  When  he  was  not  in  a 
conversational  humor,  Madame  Nodier  supplied  his 
place.  Ordinarily  the  tone  of  the  conversation  at  the 
Arsenal  was  rather  lively  than  grave.  Entrain,  levity, 
gayety  prevailed.  One  chatted  about  his  neighbors, 
but  without  any  ill-will  or  passion.  Criticism  did  not 
go  beyond  raillery.  Madame  Nodier  excelled  in  these 
delicate  mockeries,  yet  those  she  loved  the  most  she 
treated  the  worst  with  her  tongue.     Sensible  and  posf- 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    57 

tive,  she  was  prompt  to  seize  the  ridiculous  side  of 
people,  for  one  is  only  ridiculous  when  he  goes  beyond 
the  truth.  The  tranquillity  and  slowness  of  her  accent 
gave  piquancy  to  the  original  tournure  of  her  remarks. 
"In  his  stories  Nodier  always  made  himself  small, 
unsuccessful,  pitiably  winked  out.  This  trait  was.  In 
fact,  a  trait  of  his  character.  In  his  habits  he  sought 
to  be  humble,  plain,  bourgeois.  He  wanted  to  use  can- 
dles, and  would  have  preferred  tinplate  to  silver  ware. 
He  only  liked  brown  bread  and  cabbage  soup.  Pomp 
importuned  him.  He  never  desired  to  go  to  the  Opera 
or  the  Fran^ais.  On  the  other  hand,  he  never  wanted 
to  come  away  from  the  Varietes,  and  was  the  friend  of 
all  the  clowns  and  merrymakers.  His  literary  enthusi- 
asms were  reserved  for  a  company  of  anonymous  great 
men  and  obscure  geniuses  whom  he  pretended  to  have 
unearthed.  He  did  not  appear  to  appreciate  very  much 
the  true  thinkers  who  have  honored  our  century.  In 
any  one  else  this  would  have  passed  for  envy,  but  with 
him  it  was  rather  the  inability  to  support  too  strong  a 
light — a  weakness  of  'morale'  eyelid.  It  was  the  love 
of  darkness  and  twilight,  an  instinctive  embarrassment, 
a  discreet  pudency.  Universal,  celebrated  minds  pro- 
duced on  him  the  effect  of  full  suns  and  public  squares. 
He  felt  ill  at  ease,  as  if  too  conspicuous  amid  such  vast 
glory.  He  tried  to  be  infant,  people,  populace.  He 
hated  action  and  responsibility.  New  things,  discover- 
ies, industrial  progress,  he  little  welcomed.  He  ab- 
horred railroads.  He  had  the  popular  superstitions. 
Thirteen  at  table,  saltcellars  upset,  Friday,  spiders — all 
were  important  subjects  of  terror  at  the  Arsenal." 


58         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Madame  Nodier  was  assuredly  a  true  literary  help- 
meet of  her  husband.  He  submitted  most  of  his  pages 
to  her  before  their  publication.  A  contemporary  re- 
calls her  fondness  for  the  theater  and  her  slight  love 
for  toilets  of  ceremony;  while  to  the  eyes  of  another 
friend  she  was  "that  angelic  woman  who  succeeded  in 
regulating  Nodler's  stormy  life:  In  communicating  the 
calm  and  serenity  of  a  beautiful  soul  to  a  soul  troubled 
and  beaten  down." 

Dumas  the  Elder  tells  us  this  of  Nodier  (the  two 
formed  a  unique  pair  and  were  perfectly  mated)  : 
"Nodier  was  a  lovable  man,  without  a  vice,  but  full 
of  faults — of  those  charming  faults  which  make  up 
the  originality  of  a  man  of  genius.  He  was  prodigal, 
careless,  a  lounger  like  the  lazy  Figaro — that  is  to 
say,  a  lounger  with  delight.  His  dominant  shortcom- 
ing, in  the  eyes  of  Madame  Nodier  at  least,  was  his 
bibliomania — a  fault  which  was  the  joy  of  Nodier  and 
the  despair  of  his  wife."  And  Dumas  could  go  on  by 
the  hour.  In  his  amusing,  inimitable  way,  with  the  his- 
tory of  Nodler's  practical  joke  on  a  na'ive  friend  who 
was  induced  to  scour  the  earth  for  a  certain  edition, 
which  never  existed,  of  the  Bible;  with  the  account  of 
Nodler's  frequent  views  of  the  wandering  Jew;  with 
the  story  of  his  having  invented  and  baptized  a  mar- 
velous animal  which  he  called  the  taratantaleo;  with 
the  description  of  the  toad  five  inches  long  and  three 
inches  wide  which  he  pretended  to  have  dug  up  in 
Styria;  with  the  tale  of  the  toad  and  the  spider  which 
inhabited  the  crypt  in  an  unknown  church  in  Normandy, 
and  lived  from  day  to  day  by  sucking  the  oil  out  of  the 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    59 

lamp  precisely  at  midnight;  and  with  legends  of  the 
sundry  varieties  of  despised  fauna  which  Nodier  and 
his  companions  caged  for  the  menagerie  of  Romantic 
literature. 

Nodier's  tall,  lean  homeliness,  his  melancholy,  his 
habit  of  telling  stories,  make  him  seem  to  us  now  a 
kind  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  He  was  the  most  generally 
and  genuinely  liked  of  all  the  men  of  French  letters  of 
his  time,  unless  indeed  it  was  Beranger.  He  lived  here 
without  an  enemy  in  the  very  midst,  and  through  the 
whole,  of  the  storm  and  stress  period  of  modern  French 
letters.  Every  book  that  had  a  preface  by  him  was 
sure  of  success.  "The  chief  trait  of  Nodier,  his  true 
gift,"  another  friend  (Sainte-Beuve)  remarks,  "was  to 
be  inevitably  loved.  .  .  .  He  was  to  chance-coming 
poets  the  elder  brother,  the  bosom  comrade,  a  com- 
rade generous,  charming,  enthusiastic,  encouraging,  dis- 
interested, and  often  in  his  heart  the  youngest  and  most 
tender  of  them  all."  Of  the  lovable  nature  of  his 
humor  we  always  recall  this  sample,  which  reveals  at 
once  so  much  of  his  character.  To  a  disciple,  who  on 
one  occasion  had  written  something  fashioned  in  No- 
dier's style  and  had  submitted  it  to  him  for  his  opinion, 
Nodier  said:  "My  friend,  I  fear  this  cannot  be  par- 
ticularly good,  for  at  first  I  thought  it  was  my  own." 

He  was  a  true  Romantic  in  reality,  and  his  youth  and 
young  manhood  had  been  full  of  romanesque  adventure 
and  experience,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  Cherubin  in- 
cident. His  daughter  recounts  that  Nodier,  at  the  age 
of  ten,  fell  desperately  in  love  with  the  moSt  beautiful 
lady  in  his  native  town — Besangon.    So  consumed  was 


6o         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

he  by  his  passion  for  this  angel  of  loveliness  that  he 
finally  contrived  to  pour  out  his  fervor  in  a  billet-doux, 
revealing  to  her  the  dolorous  condition  of  his  heart 
and  praying  for  a  rendezvous.  To  his  delight  he  re- 
ceived a  prompt  response  in  which  the  lady — a  baron- 
ess, forsooth — promised  to  be  found  in  the  park  at  eve. 
Could  lover's  wishes  be  more  perfectly  favored?  The 
lad  repaired  in  breathless  rapture  to  the  blissful  spot, 
and,  as  soon  as  he  perceived  a  vision  of  white  lace 
through  the  twilight  and  foliage,  rushed  forward  and 
began  to  kneel  in  a  confused  outburst  of  immortal  ar- 
dor. But  imagine  the  mortifying  ending!  Her  two 
adorable,  pearly  hands  caught  possession  of  him  and, 
pitiable  to  relate,  detailed  the  most  humiliating  of  ma- 
ternal punishments — he  was  breezily  spanked  !  To  the 
chagrin  of  this  event  Nodier  ascribed  his  timidity,  and 
said  he  never  approached  a  woman  in  his  life  without 
fearing  that  he  was  going  to  be  whipped.  It  was  this 
love  of  the  unattainable  and  impracticable,  this  sad 
sentimentality,  which  Hugo  sings  of  in  a  well-known 
Ballad  apropos  of  his  friend. 

Nodier  was  virtually  a  Royalist,  yet  it  appears  that 
"he  never  had  a  political  opinion.  Ever  searching  the 
dramatic  and  the  beautiful,  he  adopted  successively  all 
the  defeated  causes  and  parties,  claiming  that  they  were 
the  most  apt  to  be  the  nearest  right."  In  literary  com- 
position he  was  a  purist  whom  the  anti-Romantic  Acad- 
emy of  that  day  seemed  glad  to  honor  by  making  him 
one  of  its  own.  "Nodier  is  the  last  writer  who  can  be 
attached  to  the  traditions  of  the  grand  century  of 
Louis  XIV  for  purity  of  taste  and  delicacy  of  language. 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    6i 

.  .  .  His  last  words,  vaguely  addressed  on  his  death 
bed  to  some  unknown  person,  were:  'Read  Tacitus 
often  and  Fenelon — to  lend  more  assurance  to  your 
style.'  " 

Thus  Nodier  held  a  unique  and  multiform  place  in 
the  Parisian  literary  world  of  his  time.  As  a  member 
of  the  Institute  because  of  his  love  for  the  traditional 
French  Idiom,  he  diffused  the  Academic  influence — that 
"defunct"  something  which  Gautier's  old  "Philistines" 
were  feebly  trying  to  preserve  by  various  processes  of 
mummification.  The  Royalism  of  Nodier  had  given 
him  the  directorship  of  the  Library  here  in  the  rue  de 
Sully,  and  he  therefore  had  the  standing  of  an  official 
and  adherent  of  the  Government.  At  the  same  time, 
however,  he  was  the  acknowledged  patron — the  "fa- 
ther"— of  the  French  Romantic  school.  His  vivid  im- 
agination and  consequent  fondness  for  the  curious  and 
the  fantastic,  and  his  profotmdly  emotional  nature, 
bound  the  young  Romantics  to  him  by  the  closest  ties. 
An  adequate  explanation  of  his  peculiar  and  important 
role  with  respect  to  them  will  be  forthcoming  when 
the  mystery  of  the  union  of  the  bourgeois  and  the  Bo- 
hemian in  the  French  Romantic  school  shall  have  been 
thoroughly  examined  and  understood.  For  Nodier  was 
a  sort  of  Bohemian  developed  into  the  faithfulest  of 
husbands;  and  the  Bohemians  of  art  and  literature  en- 
tered perfectly  at  ease  into  his  bourgeois  salon. 

As  a  man  of  caprice,  of  bizarre  fantasies,  of  an  im- 
mense liberality  and  laisser-aller,  he  attracted  the  con- 
fidence and  respect  of  the  youths  of  the  day — all  those 
callow  fellows  of  Bohemian  ateliers  and  holes-in-the- 


62         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

wall  who  wore  Carolingian  locks  and  tremendous  trous- 
ers and  who  had  decided  to  upset  the  world,  but  whom 
people  in  general  shook  their  heads  at  and  said,  "They 
are  fools."  And  as  a  home-dwelling  man  attached  to 
his  hearthstone  and  to  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  who 
loved  as  his  fav^orite  flower  the  common  columbine  as 
Rousseau  had  loved  the  common  periwinkle,  Nodier 
spread  about  him  a  stronger  and  directer  moral  influ- 
ence than  any  one  of  the  new  school.  From  his  fire- 
side here  where  we  stand,  there  were  reflected  that 
domestic  and  bourgeois  warmth  and  color  which  for 
the  first  time  were  mixing  into  French  prose  and  verse 
and  were  in  part  to  characterize  the  Romantic  litera- 
ture of  France. 

But,  before  thinking  of  the  role  of  the  Nodier  salon, 
one  should  know  of  the  young  woman  who  was  so 
richly  the  excuse  of  its  delicious  renown.  Marie-An- 
toinette-Elizabeth Nodier  was  the  only  child  of  Charles 
Nodier.  Born  in  1 8 1 1 ,  she  undoubtedly  proved,  on  the 
whole,  the  chief  attraction  here  at  the  Arsenal,  whether 
as  a  girl,  or  after  1830,  as  the  wife  of  M.  Mennessier. 
We  have  already  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  ap- 
peared to  the  eyes  of  a  young  author  in  1840.  Sainte- 
Beuve  used  to  think  of  Marie  as  Nodier's  "charming 
daughter,  his  most  faithful  image,  his  most  finished 
work  of  grace."  Another  writer  describes  her  as  "his 
(Nodier's)  daughter,  in  whom  he  saw  reflower  his 
esprit  and  a  part  of  his  talent."  Still  another  tells  us 
that  "few  young  girls  have  had,  as  much  as  Marie, 
that  joyous  verve  which  seems  to  say:  I  am  happy  to 
be  living." 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    63 

And  this  is  Madame  Hugo's  tribute  poured  out  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  her  great  affection  for  her  young 
friend:  "Madame  Mennessier  was  youth,  life,  move- 
ment, the  sparkle  of  eye,  of  gesture,  of  phrase.  And 
with  this,  an  exquisite  tact,  an  extraordinary  modera- 
tion, an  incredible  understanding  of  all  things  in  life 
from  the  largest  to  the  smallest.  She  had  an  unheard- 
of  skill  in  taking  advantage  of  everything  and  in  ex- 
ploiting everything — a  chiffon  as  well  as  a  repartee. 
She  made  duchesses  envious  in  dresses  that  a  chamber- 
maid would  have  disdained.  The  linen  at  her  wrist 
was  more  precious  than  the  lace  at  the  wrists  of  others. 
She  set  off  her  robes — her  ribbons  had  esprit." 

And  the  poets  sang  of  her  in  a  chorus  of  praise. 
Madame  Tastu  addressed  verse  to  the  black  eyes  of 
Marie — a  curious  error,  we  may  note  in  passing,  for 
her  eyes  were  not  dark.  Musset  paid  homage  to  her 
"tete  coquette  et  fleurie,"  to  her  purple  lips,  to  her 
consoling  hands  "so  sage  and  so  gentle,"  and  to  her 
goodness  and  beauty.  And  all  who  are  lovers  of  the 
verse  of  Victor  Hugo  will  recall  two  flying  leaves  which 
he  addressed  to  her  and  inserted  among  his  "Feuilles 
d'Automne." 

To  pass  from  verse  to  colors  and  canvas,  we  must 
bring  to  a  close  our  morning  here  in  the  i\rsenal,  and 
hie  for  the  afternoon  to  what  was  a  certain  quiet  par- 
lor— the  salon  of  the  daughters  of  Madame  Mennes- 
sier— in  a  beautiful  village  outside  the  southern  forti- 
fications of  Paris.  For  in  this  room  we  could  linger  at 
will  over  the  copy  of  Deveria's  aquarelle  of  Marie 
Nodier.     It  is  dated  1829.    The  original  is  apparently 


64         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

lost.  Deveria  painted  the  hours  in  aquarelles  and 
Marie  Nodier  represented  the  tenth  hour  of  the  even- 
ing. She  is  portrayed  in  full  toilet  and  in  a  loge  at  the 
opera.  Her  robe  is  pale  blue;  the  slope  of  her  shoul- 
ders is  prolonged  in  great  flying  puffs;  her  head,  like 
that  of  a  Greek  goddess,  is  set  gracefully  forward  to 
give  full  value  to  the  lines  that  curve  up  to  it.  Her  hair 
is  twirled  ambitiously  skyward  in  an  immense  coiffure 
decked  with  extravagant  features.  The  profile  of  her 
small  round  face  is  that  of  an  ingenue;  but  the  tournure 
of  her  pose  invites  our  communicative  interest,  and 
promises  a  gay,  cordial  young  woman  who  has  the  gift 
of  conversing  and  the  ease  of  entertainment. 

Here,  too,  in  this  salon  could  be  seen  her  celebrated 
portrait  by  Amaury  Duval.  It  was  executed  in  1839 
when  she  was  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  has  had  the 
strange  fate  of  always  pleasing  her  family  and  never 
her  friends.  Gautier,  in  his  half  Bohemian  way,  used 
to  say  of  it  and  of  the  artist:  "Is  it  necessary  for  him 
to  be  maladroit?  There  are  three  hours  every  day 
during  which  she  is  less  ugly  than  that.  He  should  have 
chosen  them." 

The  portrait,  despite  its  deadness  of  color  and  a 
certain  artificiality  in  handling,  is  on  the  whole  very 
satisfactory.  It  is  life  size.  Madame  Mennessier  here 
appears  in  a  black,  decolletee  robe  with  short  sleeves. 
Her  jet  black  hair  comes  compactly  down  over  her 
temples.  The  nose  has  an  accent  of  broadness,  and 
the  face  is  squarish,  and  is  overspread  as  if  with  the 
subdued  radiance  of  a  youthful  motherhood.  Her  left 
arm  hangs  gracefully   forward   over   an   arm   of  the 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    65 

fauteuil.  Her  right  hand  gently  supports  her  chin  and 
cheek.  The  whole  attitude  indicates  the  ready  con- 
versationalist. This  effect  is  heightened  wonderfully 
by  the  expression  of  the  eyes  which,  to  her  family,  seem 
perfectly  reproduced.  The  skill  of  the  painter  was  here 
at  its  best.  We  love  to  regard  her  two  grayish-green 
eyes  that  bead,  in  this  canvas,  with  twinkling  life,  and 
look  straight  at  us  with  a  frank  amiability,  telling  us 
that  their  owner  was  quick  to  share  a  sportive  hour,  or 
a  serious,  comfort-needing  mood.  They  speak  of  an 
indescribable  mixture  of  gayety,  affection,  discretion, 
and  we  forget  that  they  are  only  in  a  pictur:^.  One 
realizes  that  there  exhales  from  this  canvas  a  woman's 
lovely  dignity  and  a  genial  vivacity — the  two  prevail- 
ing perfumes  in  the  sachet  of  her  personality. 

She  had  a  bright  tongue,  yet  her  full-beating  heart 
was  heard  in  still  distincter  messages.  She  spread  about 
her  the  charm  of  a  cheerful  sympathy,  a  warm  com- 
radeship. And  as  the  background  for  all  this,  there 
was  her  domesticity.  What  gifts  and  culture  she  was 
graced  of  were  mellowed  by  her  tender,  homelike  na- 
ture. We  do  not  doubt  it  was  rather  for  her  than 
even  for  Nodier  himself  that  those  younger  Romantics 
kept  coming  to  the  Arsenal.  In  her  they  found  a  sweet, 
fair-eyed  friend,  who  was  enthusiastic  for  them  and 
proud  of  them,  and  to  whom  it  was  a  genuine  pleasure 
to  offer  their  verses  and  designs.  With  her  they  could 
talk  and  sing  and  dance.  They  could  have  at  the  Ar- 
senal something  of  a  free  intercourse  with  a  maiden 
who  was  exemplifying  before  their  very  eyes  that 
womanly  purity,  emotivity  and  fireside  happiness  which 


66         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

many  of  them,  leading  Bohemian  careers  adrift  in  un- 
domestic  Paris,  could  otherwise  dream  of  only  in 
rimes  and  colors  and  contours. 

This  atmosphere  inspired  them  with  confidence  and 
self-respect,  with  the  crowning  promises  of  utmost  ef- 
fort and  of  temperate,  moral  living — all  those  virtues 
for  which  the  role  of  the  Nodier  salon  is  to  be  re- 
marked, and  to  which  the  daughter  of  the  house  con- 
tributed her  full  and  essential  part.  Surely  no  other 
young  woman  of  that  epoch  diffused  among  the  youth- 
ful companions  and  followers  of  Victor  Hugo  such  an 
influence  as  hers,  either  in  quality  or  degree.  For  we 
cannot  think,  in  this  connection,  of  Madame  Recamier 
nor  George  Sand. 

The  favorite  flower  of  Madame  Mennessier  was 
the  honeysuckle;  and  those  familiar  with  the  lives  of 
the  French  Romantics  are  not  surprised  that  she  dis- 
liked having  flowers  about  her  in  the  house.  She  could 
not  bear  to  see  them  wither  and  die,  and  therefore 
rarely  plucked  a  rose  or  grouped  a  bouquet.  It  is  in- 
teresting, too,  to  learn  that  during  her  last  years  she 
always  sat  by  a  window  which  faced  the  little  stony 
main  street  of  her  village,  instead  of  by  one  of  the  win- 
dows which  looked  out  over  a  pretty  garden  and  across 
the  picturesque  valley  of  the  Bievre.  The  homely  street 
and  its  humble  life  were  company  for  one  who  had  been 
surrounded  for  years  by  so  many  brilliant  friends.  The 
landscape  was  too  lonely  and  pensive  for  her. 

She  read  much,  and  the  poets  of  her  heart  were  La- 
martine  and  Musset.  Among  novelists,  she  preferred 
Dumas  and  Octave  Feuillet.     The  novels  of  George 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    67 

Sand  she  did  not  care  for  and  scarcely  had  ever  fingered 
through  one  of  them. 

It  is  natural  to  conclude  that  her  gift  of  making  her- 
self universally  loved,  of  effacing  herself  before  her 
companions,  accounts  for  her  failure  to  contribute  any- 
thing notable  to  art  or  literature.  She  was  endowed 
with  talents,  but  she  cultivated  them  modestly  and  only 
for  her  friends  and  household.  She  seemed  to  have 
no  dreams  of  ambition  save  for  those  about -her.  Her 
joyous  neglect  of  self  doubtless  often  impressed  her 
friends  with  the  thought  of  what  she  might  have  done, 
had  she  not  been  content  to  remain  simply  a  delightful 
inspiration  to  others;  for,  as  it  is,  extravagant  are  the 
laudations  that  have  come  down  to  us  of  her  music, 
her  verse  and  her  esprit.  Everlasting  is  the  praise; 
ephemeral  was  its  theme. 

At  conversing  she  must  have  been  remarkably  adept 
in  the  sense  of  being  irresistibly  gay  and  entertaining. 
We  saw  how  her  portraits  speak  the  conversationalist. 
Those  who  knew  her  in  her  prime  say  that  one  can 
scarcely  form  an  idea  of  her  entrain  when  she  found 
some  one  who  was  good  at  repartee  and  could  give  quick 
and  salient  replies.  That  such  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances were  in  no  respect  lacking  we  are  offered  abun- 
dant proof,  for  the  bourgeois  circle  at  the  Arsenal  was 
surely  as  successful  a  company  of  famous  conversers 
and  story-tellers  as  ever  came  habitually  together  even 
in  France.  Did  not  the  July  Monarchy  prove  that  the 
gift  of  esprit  was  not  confined,  among  the  French,  to 
the  aristocracy  and  the  populace?  Loui-s  Philippe,  the 
only  bourgeois  ruler  the  greater  France  has  had,  ap- 


68  French  Essays  and  Profiles 

pears  to  have  been  precisely  Its  wittiest  monarch. 
Madame  Mennessier  was  very  musical  and  music- 
loving.  At  the  piano  she  was  contented  with  accom- 
paniments and  the  little  contredanses  and  waltzes  that 
punctuated  and  modulated  the  dancing  at  the  soirees. 
A  friend  of  hers  tells  us  that  Marie  Nodier  sang  three 
decades  before  Gounod  that  which  this  master  has  since 
sung.  There  is  a  significant  undertone  of  truth  in  the 
above;  for  the  noteworthy,  if  not  notable,  trait  in 
Madame  Mennessier  was  her  heartfelt  color  of  senti- 
ment; and  it  is  this  that  Gounod  has  woven  into  music 
in  a  more  eminent  degree  than  any  French  composer. 
She  wrote  countless  songs.  She  wedded  to  melody 
much  of  Musset's  verse  and  some  of  Sainte-Beuve  and 
of  Victor  Hugo.  Here  in  the  silence  of  her  parlor  we 
could  rove  through  a  pile  of  her  scores.  They  are 
neatly  penned;  the  paper  is  yellow  with  age  and  finger- 
soiled.  The  melodies  are  very  modest  and  are  chap- 
eroned by  the  plainest  of  correct  accompaniments,  for 
she  knew  nothing  of  modern  harmony.  Her  songs  are 
completely  forgotten,  yet  for  years  they  were  not  with- 
out a  certain  fame  throughout  all  Paris. 

Her  writings  consist  of  a  few  contes,  of  "Lettres 
d'une  hirondelle,"  of  her  book  "Charles  Nodier,"  and 
of  verses.  Her  unpretending  poetic  talent  may  be 
found  at  its  best  by  far  in  the  two  sonnets  which  she 
addressed  to  Musset  under  the  circumstances  revealed 
by  a  friend.     He  recounts: 

"One  day  in  the  spring  of  1843,  I  brought  some 
verse  to  Nodier  and  among  it  there  was  a  sonnet  to 
Musset.     'Leave  this  one  with  me,'  he  said,  'it  may 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     69 

render  us  real  service.  For  sometime  past  Musset  has 
neglected  us  and  appears  to  forget  us.  Your  sonnet 
may  bring  him  back  to  us.  My  daughter  will  send  it  to 
him,  and  the  ungrateful  fellow  must  come  down  here 
and  tell  us  why  he  is  in  the  sullis.'  Madame  Mennes- 
sier  at  once  sent  the  sonnet  to  Musset  with  a  letter  of 
the  kind  she  knew  how  to  write,  and  the  next  day  I  re- 
ceived a  note  from  him  thanking  me  for  my  poetry  and 
excusing  himself  from  answering  in  verse — that  lan- 
guage, he  delicately  added,  which  I  understood  so  well 
how  to  use.  Of  what  does  glory  consist?  If  he  had 
addressed  me  in  rime,  I  should  have  been  celebrated. 
In  any  event  my  sonnet  had  awakened  him.  He 
hastened  to  the  Arsenal,  saw  his  two  friends,  and,  the 
following  day,  thanked  Madame  Mennessier  in  a  son- 
net for  her  amiable  appeal.  She  responded  in  the  same 
form.  Musset  replied  in  verse  the  same  day.  In  short, 
during  three  days  there  was  a  rapid  exchange  of  rime 
between  the  two  poets  who  had  been  friends  from 
childhood." 

Musset  himself  paid  these  sonnets  of  hers  a  frank 
compliment  in  writing  his  brother  at  the  time:  "I  have 
also  done  several  sonnets  for  Madame  Mennessier, 
who  sent  me  in  response  two  very  pretty  ones." 

No,  and  nevertheless,  Madame  Mennessier  is 
scarcely  for  an  instant  to  be  remembered  for  what  she 
created,  though  she  will  be  immortal  for  what  she  in- 
spired. It  would  be  idle  for  one  to  attempt  to  enumer- 
ate the  canvases  and  the  musical  scores  that  lauded  her 
charms,  and  the  countless  minor  or  casual  tributes  that 
were  paid  her  in  rime.  We  are  curious  to  learn,  though, 


70         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

that  she  had  two  albums — one  as  a  girl,  the  other  as 
a  young  married  woman.  The  latter,  containing  the 
Arvers  sonnet,  I  never  saw  for  it  was  en  province.  But 
in  the  former  the  present  writer  found  that  the  opening 
tribute,  dated  Nov.  i6,  1824,  was  by  Lamartine.  It 
consists  of  six  lines  written  in  a  small,  neat,  but  yet  not 
very  legible  style,  in  the  upper  right  hand  corner  of  the 
first  page. 

In  this  album,  too,  were  stanzas  by  the  elder  Dumas, 
Vigny  and  Victor  Hugo.  The  Dumas  verses  are  penned 
with  the  greatest  of  care  in  a  minute  yet  clear  hand. 
They  are  impeccably  aligned,  showing  that  he  wrote 
them  along  the  edge  of  a  sheet  of  paper  or  a  ruler. 
He  was  then  twenty-one. 

Madame  Mennessier  unquestionably  inspired  more 
of  imperishable  verse  than  any  other  French  woman. 
Besides  the  three  sonnets  of  Musset  to  which  we  have 
referred,  he  dedicated  to  her  some  well-known  lines  as 
a  tribute  to  her  for  having  interpreted  in  music  some 
of  his  rimes.  Victor  Hugo  composed  as  many  stanzas 
in  her  honor  as  Musset. 

But  the  most  memorable  of  the  verse  which  Madame 
Mennessier  called  forth  was  the  sonnet  of  Arvers — 
everything  considered,  the  most  celebrated  French  son- 
net of  the  nineteenth  century.  Felix  Arvers,  one  of  the 
many  minor  frequenters  of  the  Arsenal,  was  a  kind 
of  Musset  in  miniature.  All  else  from  his  pen  proved 
ephemeral.  Nodier,  charmed  with  the  sonnet,  was  al- 
ways having  Arvers  recite  it  at  the  soirees.  The  lines 
were  originally  written  in  the  second  album  of  Madame 
Mennessier.    They  are  as  follows,  with  their  imperfect 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    71 

punctuation,  in  the  first  edition  (1833)  of  the  poet's 
"Mes  Heures  Perdues,"  the  words  "Sonnet  imite  de 
ritalien"  not  appearing  in  the  album. 

"Sonnet   imite   de   I'ltalien." 
Mon  ame  a  son  secret,  ma  vie  a  son  mystere; 
Un  amour  eternel  en  un  moment  congu : 
Le  mal  est  sans  espoir,  aussi  j'ai  dii  le  taire, 
Et  celle  qui  I'a  fait  n'en  a  jamais  rien  su. 

Helas !  j'aurai  passe  pres  d'elle  inapergu, 
Toujours  a  ses  cotes,  et  pourtant  solitaire, 
Et  j'aurai  jusqu'au  bout  fait  mon  temps  sur  la  terre, 
N'osant  rien  demander  et  n'ayant  rien  regu. 

Pour  elle,  quoique  Dieu  I'ait  faite  douce  et  tendre, 
Elle  ira  son  chemin,  distraite,  et  sans  entendre 
Ce  murmure  d'amour  eleve  sur  ses  pas; 

A  I'austere  devoir,  pieusement  fidele, 

Elle  dira,  lisant  ces  vers  tout  remplis  d'elle: 

"Quelle  est  done  cette  femme?"  et  ne  comprendra  pas. 

( My  heart  has  its  secret,  my  life,  its  mystery ;  an  eternal 
love  in  a  moment  conceived.  The  ill  is  without  hope 
and  so  have  I  concealed  it.  And  she  who  has  caused  it 
has  never  aught  guessed. 

Alas,  I  have  passed  near  her  form  unperceived,  ever  by 
her  side  and  yet  ever  alone.  I  shall  have  finished  my 
term  upon  earth,  year  by  year,  asking  of  her  nothing 
and  nothing  received. 


72         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

And  she,  though  God  made  her  gentle  and  tender,  will 
go  her  way  freely  and  unaware,  without  hearing  this 
murmur  of  love  at  her  feet. 

Correctly  faithful  to  duty  will  always  she  ask,  on  read- 
ing this  verse  so  filled  with  her  soul,  "Who  is  really  this 
woman?"  and  never  will  know.) 

This  poem  breathes  the  fragrant,  tender  loveliness 
of  Madame  Mennessier.  It  was  because  Arvers  con- 
fined a  perfect  souvenir  of  her  aroma  in  this  little  casket 
of  a  sonnet  that  he  was  saved  to  fame,  and  that  some- 
thing of  the  incense  of  her  modest  glory,  which  seemed 
to  be  daily  dissipating  in  her  self-disinterestedness,  was 
preserved  in  a  precious  reliquary  of  rime.  What  con- 
firms our  feeling  that  Arvers  diffused  her  charm  in 
rhythm  more  felicitously  than  any  of  his  great  rivals  is 
an  instant's  comparison  of  his  sonnet  with  the  two 
sonnets  she  sent  Musset.  We  are  conscious  at  once  that 
her  verse  has  more  of  the  strain  and  quality  of  his  than 
of  Musset's  or  Hugo's.  The  same  Arverian,  low- 
voiced  gentleness,  the  same  warm  love-note,  are  here. 
The  verse  of  Arvers  makes  us  think  only  of  her — it  is 
thoroughly  impregnated  with  her  fragrance.  The 
poems  of  Hugo  and  Musset,  on  the  contrary,  are 
mainly  filled  with  the  thoughts  of  themselves. 


We  might  now  attempt  to  outline  more   fully  the 
nature  of  the  Nodier  salon  and  its  influence.    We  have 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     73 

seen  how  Madame  Mennessier,  in  whom  the  fire- 
side life  and  the  salon  life  appeared  to  intermingle  in  an 
inimitable  manner,  accentuated  there  a  distinguish- 
ing emotionalism,  domesticity  and  youth.  By  no  means 
was  there  absent  the  background  of  books,  art  and  cul- 
ture, yet  the  artistic  and  the  belletristic  were  somehow 
effaced  by  the  presence  of  those  individualistic,  blood- 
throbbing  people  who  laughed  and  wept,  and  were 
vigorously  active  and  human  in  the  flesh.  At  Nodier's 
Arsenal,  men  doted  on  fantastic  imageries,  and  played 
in  haunted  domains  of  freaks  and  oddities  in  a  way  that 
seemed  half  childlike.  There,  women  of  copious  and 
facile  emotions  were  quick  to  sympathize  and  shed 
tears.  There  Victor  Hugo,  Lamartlne  and  Musset 
found  a  plain  humanity  to  work  upon  with  all  its  senti- 
mentality as  well  as  naturalness;  and,  at  will,  they 
aroused  it  into  triumphant  enthusiasm  or  melted  it  into 
lachrymose  weakness. 

For  it  was  the  heart  that  reigned  at  the  Nodiers',  and 
the  various  moods  it  was  doubtless  wont  to  Indulge  in 
there  may  be  seen  reflected  In  the  literary  pages  of 
those  days.  At  times  it  was  too  soft  and  mushy,  too 
tearfully  and  feebly  good,  like  the  verse  of  Madame 
Desbordes-Valmore  with  its  "moonlights  and  weeping 
willows."  At  times  it  showed  that  mature  sensibility, 
tolerance  and  maternal  tenderness  which  were  being  de- 
veloped in  the  volumes  of  George  Sand.  Again  it  dis- 
played in  some  hours  the  kind  of  emotivity,  cor- 
rected by  esprit,  vivacity  and  a  clear,  independent  sense 
of  the  ridiculous,  which  graces  the  stanzas  and  para- 
graphs of  Musset.    And  it  was,  of  course,  the  symbol 


74         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

of  the  sentiment  of  the  "interior  life" ;  for,  as  has  been 
pointed  out,  the  life  of  the  inner-self  then  at  length 
created,  among  the  writings  of  French  women,  a 
notable  volume  in  the  "Journal"  of  Eugenie  de  Guerin. 

The  Nodier  salon,  with  its  influence  for  morality  and 
family  ties,  antedated  the  bourgeois  reign  of  King 
Louis  Philippe,  and  existed  almost  until  the  new  na- 
tional epoch  of  1848.  One  is  thus  led  to  remark  how 
the  Arsenal  soirees  were  distinguished  by  characteristics 
not  typically  French,  but  English.  Its  open,  unconven- 
tional, family  hospitality  was  much  like  that  of  a 
country  seat  in  England.  It  offered  the  truest  and 
plainest  of  welcomes,  and  a  conviviality  which,  in  this 
instance,  had  only  a  little  "sugared  water  to  pass 
around."  Its  virtue  lay  in  simply  letting  the  guests 
feel  chez  soi.  Madame  Hugo  remarks  that  "at  the 
Nodiers'  every  one  held  his  pleasure  in  his  own  hands, 
and  was  accountable  to  no  one.  Nodier  obliterated 
himself  too  much  ever  to  repress  or  interfere  with  any 
elan.  His  friends  were  more  in  their  own  house  than 
in  his.  Indulgent,  gracious  and  almost  feminine,  he 
offered  as  it  were  the  hospitality-woman." 

This  personal,  warming-pan  comfort,  this  common, 
daily  life,  unaffected  by  the  presence  of  friends  and 
strangers,  this  freedom  of  the  daughter  in  her  inter- 
course with  the  guests,  this  predominance  of  very  young 
people — all  this  was  English,  not  French.  It  was  but 
another  evidence  of  the  immense  influx  of  things  Anglo- 
Saxon  into  France  with  the  Romantic  school,  and  was 
naturally  of  the  epoch  when  a  large  proportion  of 
French  poetry  cited  English  verses  for  its  texts  and 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    75 

mottoes.  The  idea  of  English  family  life  here  tri- 
umphed over  that  of  the  French  chez  soi.  It  was  the 
home  invading  the  salon.  The  moment  the  host  and 
guests  caught  the  fashion  of  appearing  and  doing  much 
as  they  pleased  in  their  assemblings,  the  fate  of  the  his- 
toric salon  was  practically  sealed;  for,  as  M.  Brunetiere 
has  well  said,  "there  would  be  no  salons  if  each  of  us 
brought  only  our  natural  selves."  Thus  the  Nodier 
soirees  exemplified  in  a  significant  way  a  transition  from 
the  salon  of  France  to  the  home  of  England,  and  illus- 
trated the  eminence  of  the  one  and  the  virtues  of  the 
other. 

The  traits  of  the  levees  at  the  Arsenal  became  salient 
In  our  minds  when  we  think  of  the  "Classic"  reunions 
of  that  day.  The  "Classic"  salon  of  the  gay  and  wanton 
hermit  M.  Jouy  seems  to  have  been  the  most  inimical 
and  persistent  enemy  which  the  Arsenal  was  blessed 
with.  This  antagonist  seethed  with  violent  rage  when- 
ever he  glanced  at  any  of  the  soft-eyed  lyrics  of  La- 
martine.  "Whimperer!"  he  woi^ld  exclaim.  "You  are 
lamenting,  are  you?  You  are  poitrlnaire,  are  you? 
What  do  you  suppose  I  care?  The  dying  poet!  Eh 
blen!  then  die  of  your  grief,  blockhead — you  won't  be 
the  first  one!"  And  so  we  can  fancy  how  M.  Jouy 
could  suddenly  forget  his  gayety  and  descend  into  the 
bowels  of  direst  wrath  whenever  a  certain  small  word 
was  even  whispered  In  his  presence.  That  word  was 
Hugo. 

The  characteristics  of  the  Nodier  salon  and  Its  liter- 
ary role  are  brought  into  a  bolder  and  broader  relief 
when  we  reread  what  Brunetiere  has  signaled  as  the 


76         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

effect  of  woman  and  the  salons  on  French  literature 
down  to  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  In- 
fluence for  presentable  respectability  and  social  seem- 
llness  In  appearance  and  bearing,  which  Brunetlere 
points  out  as  the  first  lesson  of  the  earlier  salons,  finds 
its  complement  in  the  Influence  at  the  Arsenal  for 
morality,  or  the  something  that  makes  for  the  Ideal  of 
family.  As  the  precleuses  declared  against  the  vulgar, 
the  ofi^ensive,  the  coarsely  wanton  in  letters,  so  the 
Arsenal  stood  as  a  protest  against  social  irregularities 
and  excesses  and  against  the  brutalities  of  the  rights  of 
passion  which  characterized  so  many  pages  of  the  turbu- 
lent young  Romantics,  and  which  Bohemianism  insisted 
in  attaching  as  a  tail  to  the  kite  of  the  new  school. 
So  while  Gautler  and  his  chums  were  vigorously  repre- 
senting "liberality"  and  independence  at  the  evening  of 
Hernani,  Marie  Nodier  and  her  companions  were  there 
unconsciously  representing  the  claims  and  charms  of 
simple  virtue. 

As  distinguished  from  "elegance  in  precision,  perfec- 
tion in  the  measure,  and,  with  the  greatest  writers, 
lucidity  in  profoundness,"  which  were  the  results  of  the 
role  of  the  traditional  salons,  there  were  to  be  found 
at  the  Nodlers',  as  we  have  seen,  the  two  mates  whose 
marriage  had  led  to  Romanticism,  namely,  emotion 
with  Its  consciousness  of  weak  and  suffering  mortality, 
and,  as  an  alleviation  or  safety  valve  therefor,  imagi- 
nation with  Its  realms  of  Faith  and  of  fantastic  diver- 
sion. Precision  of  outline  here  disappeared  In  the  shift- 
ing moods  and  vague  reaches  of  sentiment :  the  correct 
brain  yielded  to  the  overflowing  heart  which  ignores 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     77 

formalities  and  symmetries.  The  old-time  feminine 
impulse  for  form  was  succeeded  by  the  new  feminine 
impulse  for  "matter,"  since  no  estheticism  nor  preciosity 
affected  the  Arsenal  nor  ever  courted  with  perfumed 
graces  any  of  its  characteristic  habitues.  Corseted 
and  bepowdered  refinement  here  gave  way  before 
sweet,  fresh-faced  tenderness  and  sympathy;  and  the 
cult  of  caste  and  station,  with  its  indifference  to  the 
rights  or  feelings  of  others,  melted  somewhat  into  the 
cult  of  self-sacrifice,  or  of  the  claims  that  come  from 
without.  Thus  the  old  salons  emphasized  the  aristo- 
craticalness  of  French  belles-lettres  and  kept  them  for 
two  or  three  centuries  removed  from  the  people.  It  re- 
mained for  the  Nodier  salon  to  bring  French  letters 
down,  so  far  as  a  salon  could,  from  the  world  of  the 
upper  class.  The  vivified  and  mortal-like  volumes  of 
the  Romantics  were  not  for  the  nobility  of  France. 
This  new  literature  was,  in  some  phases,  for  the  bour- 
geoisie and,  in  others,  for  the  Bohemians  and  the 
populace.  It  stirred  the  hearts,  fancies  and  hopes  of 
the  people  (using  this  word  in  its  broadest  sense),  and 
bequeathed  to  France  a  popular  literature.  Therefore, 
while  the  literary  reunions  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  exemplified  the  "artificial  and  the 
superficial,"  and  the  aristocratic  and  solidarity,  the 
Nodier  circle  taught  naturalness  and  genuineness, 
democracy  and  individualism.  It  was  the  salon-Rous- 
seau, in  the  best  sense  of  the  term. 

Again,  the  salons  of  Brunetiere  were,  as  he  says,  far 
from  encouraging  any  pursuits  of  the  Indefinable  or 
any  excursions  into  the  domains  of  the  Dark  and  In- 


78         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

scrutable.  There  were  no  Hamlets  and  Fausts  in 
classic  French  literature,  and  the  pages  of  Racine  and 
Moliere  were  untroubled  by  questions  of  free  will  and 
destiny.  But  in  the  grand  ccnacle  of  the  Nodiers,  it 
was  precisely  this  love  for  the  Unknowable,  and  for  the 
realms  of  chiaroscuros  which  were  the  hovering  coun- 
terpart and  product  of  the  Romantic  deification  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  that  gave  the  medieval  HernanI  to  French 
belles-lettres.  Imagination  never  could  paint  too 
strangely,  terribly  or  darkly,  nor  fantasy  limn  the  bor- 
ders or  margins  of  life  too  fantastically  or  grotesquely, 
to  suit  the  wondering  hearers  of  Hugo  and  Nodler. 

And  so,  while  the  old  aristocratic  salons  contributed 
to  works  of  fiction — to  the  novel — and  notably  to  the 
theater,  the  Arsenal  associated  Itself  with,  and  con- 
tributed to,  the  rise  and  growth  of  modern  French 
poetry  and  of  the  French  Romantic  literature  and  art 
In  their  various  phases.  It  is  left  for  the  twentieth 
century  to  determine  whether  the  women  of  1830  oc- 
casioned a  wealth  of  "Letters"  and  "Correspondence" 
equaling,  when  measured  by  every  standard,  that  of  any 
previous  isochronal  epoch  in  France.  But  If  it  shall  be 
found  that  they  have  not,  it  will  be  for  the  reason 
that  they  were  enriching  French  literature  in  other  and 
superior  ways;  for  they  were  either  poets  putting  their 
communications  into  the  form  of  verse,  or  novelists 
publishing  their  confessions  and  confidences  under  the 
guise  of  romances,  or  solitaires  writing  "Diaries"  and 
"Journals."  As  for  the  art  of  conversation,  wherein 
the  French  have  excelled  alike  in  all  times,  the  women 
at  the  Arsenal  doubtless  displayed  less  scintillating  bril- 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics     79 

llance,  less  glinting  mentality  and  preciosity  In  their 
liveliness  of  tongue  than  their  fair  predecessors;  yet 
their  colloquies  must  surely  have  shown  more  human- 
ness  and  more  spontaneous  and  colorful  variety. 

One  observes  then,  In  a  word,  with  respect  to  the 
comparative  characteristics  of  the  Nodler  salon,  how 
the  home  life  there  began  to  "kill"  the  salon;  how  an 
English  type  of  living  succeeded  to  a  French  type  of 
living;  how  the  bourgeois  dethroned  the  aristocrat, 
and  liberty  and  liberality  unloosened  the  hold  of  Court 
and  tradition  in  all  things;  how  French  belles-lettres 
were  popularized  as  well  as  romanticized;  how  the 
natural  took  precedence  over  the  artificial,  and  the 
youthful  over  the  old;  how  the  individualistic  rose  up 
out  of  the  social;  how  the  heart  and  the  Inner  sensibili- 
ties, color  and  the  moral,  displaced  brain,  mentality, 
form  and  the  decorative.  In  the  quasi  triumph  of  the 
human  over  the  artistic;  and  how  imagination,  the  pic- 
turesque, the  bizarre,  the  cult  of  the  shapeless  Unseen 
and  of  the  obscure  Unknown,  were  imported  Into  the 
typically  bright,  sane,  symmetrical,  mundane  sphere  of 
French  literary  activity. 


What  a  pity  that  Madame  Mennessler-Nodler  left 
no  Journal  or  Memoirs!  Her  knowledge  of  the  lettered 
life  In  France  during  the  whole  of  the  exciting  Ro- 
mantic epoch,  her  recollections  of  her  countless  great 
friends  In  their  early,  fame-striving  years,  her  reasons 
for  esteeming  each  of  them  Individually,  and  her  ac- 


8o         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

counts  of  how  they  were  generally  regarded  in  their 
young  careers,  and  of  the  belletristic  gossip  and  small 
talk  of  the  day,  would  have  been  of  unfailing  interest 
and  no  little  profit  to  posterity. 

She  liked  the  man  Balzac  and  respected  him.  She 
knew  him  quite  well  despite  the  fact  that  he  was  scarce- 
ly visible  to  the  world  at  large.  No  one  in  her  circle 
ever  dreamt  in  the  1830's  that  he  would  become  what 
the  marvelous  Balzac  is  to  us.  He  wrote  novels,  it 
was  understood,  but  no  one  thought  of  asking  if  any- 
body had  perused  them,  for  every  one  was  writing  fic- 
tion and  verse  in  those  days.  Madame  Mennessier 
never  in  her  whole  life  read  one  of  his  volumes,  and 
naturally  never  could  quite  comprehend  his  posthumous 
glory. 

She  recounted  this  incident.  "There  was  at  that  time 
[1842  or  3,  not  long  before  Nodier's  death]  a  vacant 
fauteuil  at  the  Academy,  and  Balzac  was  a  candidate. 
One  day  he  issued  forth  from  my  father's  study,  passed 
through  the  salon,  and  came  and  sat  down  by  me.  I 
asked  him  laughingly :  'Have  you  something  of  the  look 
of  a  nonplussed  canvasser?  Is  it  possible, by  chance, that 
my  immortal  has  refused  you  his  voice?' — 'You  could 
not  guess  what  his  answer  was  to  me,'  replied  Balzac 
with  an  emotion  all  the  more  noticeable  in  his  case,  be- 
cause it  was  not  his  nature  to  be  easily  moved.  'His 
response  was:  I  will  do  better  than  give  you  my  vote, 
my  friend.    I  will  leave  you  my  place.'  " 

Madame  Mennessier  held  Delacroix  in  high  honor; 
and  Lamartine  and  also  Vigny,  with  his  own  seraphic 
and  distinguished  air,  left  her  sweet  and  precious  mem- 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    8i 

ones.  Lamartine  wrote  her  this  touching  letter  to- 
ward the  humiliating  and  hopeless  end  of  his  career. 
"Your  'Souvenirs'  [of  Charles  Nodier],  so  opportune 
and  so  profound  and  so  amiable,  is  one  of  the  best 
fortunes  of  my  life!  This  letter  arrives  in  the  very- 
depths  of  my  trouble,  and  consoles  me  so  far  as  it  is 
possible  to  console  me.  Know  that  you  have  done  me 
great  good.  That  will  encourage  you  to  recommence. 
I  am  here  for  three  weeks  in  the  midst  of  tribulations 
and  lacerations  of  soul.  France  is  without  heart,  but 
you  have  enough  for  all." 

Jules  Janin,  who  was  constantly  bumbling  and  buz- 
zing about  like  a  May  beetle,  was  one  of  her  most  inti- 
mate friends,  and  they  were  uncommonly  lively  and 
espiegle  when  together.  She  had  a  quiet  horror  of 
Sainte-Beuve  whose  tongue,  which  appeared  to  be  en- 
couraged by  his  biographic  methods  in  literary  criticism, 
could  taint  the  very  air  with  suspicion. 

The  Hugo  and  Nodier  families  were  most  closely  as- 
sociated during  the  earlier  period  of  the  Romantic 
movement,  and  Madame  Hugo  and  Marie  Nodier  were 
for  fifteen  years  like  sisters  to  each  other.  Nodier  and 
Hugo  went  in  company  to  Rheims  to  be  present  at  the 
coronation  of  Charles  X.  It  was  also  in  1824  that  the 
Hugo  and  Nodier  households  together  made  their  ex- 
cursion to  the  Alps. 

It  was  a  famous  tour  full  of  incident  and  merriment, 
and  daily  inspired  both  verse  and  song  in  the  two  poets. 
Nodier  was  the  clown  of  the  party,  and  crowned  their 
alpestrine  ascension  with  a  typically  sublime  and  fan- 
tastic climax  when  he  presented  Victor  Hugo  to  Mont 


82         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Blanc.  Hugo's  career  after  1840  swept  him  outside 
the  range  of  the  intimacy  and  modest  personal  interest 
of  Madame  Mennessier.  The  Hugo  who  was  peer  of 
France,  politician,  statesman,  exile,  she  did  not  know 
nor  understand,  and  therefore  she  could  not  glory  in 
nor  sympathize  with  him.  He  was  no  longer  for  her 
the  young  gifted  friend  who  had  a  lovable  family  and 
was  almost  a  brother  to  her. 

That  he,  on  the  other  hand,  always  retained  some- 
thing of  the  feeling  which  he  displayed  in  the  1830's  in 
his  verse  to  her,  is  evidenced  by  this  letter  which  he 
wrote  her  near  the  end  of  his  banishment.  "Dear 
Marie,  it's  my  fete — this  bouquet  which  has  come  from 
you.  I  have  just  read  an  exquisite  page  of  your  book 
'Charles  Nodier.'  Charles  Nodier!  what  a  tender  and 
beautiful  name!  The  name  of  your  father,  the  name 
of  my  brother  !  He  left  you  his  soul,  and  you  have  put 
it  in  this  book.  You  have  his  style,  you  have  his  con- 
versation, you  have  his  charm  plus  your  own.  By  what 
means  are  you  able  to  be  his  daughter  and  to  seem  at 
the  same  time  his  muse?  You  have  taken  up  his  quill, 
but  I  think  it  must  have  fallen  from  your  own  wings. 
You  were  his  sweet  angel.  Merci  et  brava  for  your 
tender  and  touching  volume,  the  embalmment  of  a 
noble  memory!  My  wife  has  wept  with  emotion.  I 
embrace  the  good  and  charming  souls  who  surround 
you,  and  I  kneel  at  your  feet.     Ave  Maria." 

Musset  and  Madame  Mennessier  were  mates  from 
childhood.  He  was  by  one  year  her  senior.  Their  af- 
fection for  each  other  was  almost  that  of  lovers.  She 
was  faithfully  on  his  side  in  the  Musset-Sand  imbroglio. 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    83 

She  knew  well  enough  how  infantile,  impetuous,  erring 
he  was,  yet  she  believed  heartily  in  his  excellent  in- 
tentions and  in  his  essential  manliness  and  truthfulness, 
and  she  deplored  his  suffering  nature  and  career.  As 
for  George  Sand,  Madame  Mennessier  had  never  met 
her;  and,  whatever  might  be  said  of  Musset,  the  pen 
and  habits  of  living  of  the  author  of  "Indiana"  placed 
her,  during  that  epoch,  apart  from  the  women  of  self- 
respecting  Parisian  households. 

We  have  noticed  how  Musset  sang  of  Madame  Men- 
nessier in  verse,  and  we  realize  how  he  felt  a  touch  of 
truth  in  writing  her  one  day,  in  his  characteristic  way, 
apropos  of  the  "respectable  Arsenal  where  we  had 
danced  at  fifteen."  He  exclaimed:  "Alas,  we  have  all 
become  great  personages,  and  la  gloire,  which  does  not 
dance,  has  separated  everything.  La  gloire  has  per- 
mitted you,  at  least,  to  remain  what  you  were — one  of 
the  most  charming  and  spirituelles  women  in  this  stupid 
epoch." 

But  none  of  the  illustrious  friends  of  Madame  Men- 
nessier showed  a  more  sincere  and  abounding  affection 
for  her  in  his  way  than  the  elder  Dumas.  He  lives,  in 
his  whole  big  presence  of  body  and  heart,  in  this  note 
which  he  sent  her  in  1867  in  acknowledgment  of  her 
"Charles  Nodier."  "I  received  your  letter  and  your 
volume  this  morning.  To-night  the  book  lies  read 
through !  I  have  just  relived  forty  years.  I  swear  to 
you,  Marie,  that  one  of  my  great  regrets  in  not  believ- 
ing in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  is  to  have  to  say  to 
myself  that  I  shall  never  see  your  father  again.  And 
if  I  do  not  hasten  to  you  and  embrace  you,  perhaps  I 


84         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

shall  never  see  you  again.  Your  father  is  the  man 
whom  I  have  loved  the  most  tenderly.  You  are  the 
woman,  although  you  have  never  suspected  it,  whom  I 
have  loved  the  most  paternally!  You  have  written  a 
beautiful  book  which  has  something  saintly  about  it, 
Au  revoir,  Marie.  If  we  never  see  each  other  again — 
Adieu!  Bon,  voila,  I  discover  that  I  have  used  a  half 
sheet.  You  merit,  nevertheless,  a  whole  one.  All  my 
tenderness  of  heart  to  you." 

How  romantic  and  poetic  it  was  for  Dumas  the 
Elder  to  salute  her  from  the  harbor  of  Tunis  on  a  cer- 
tain December  morning  in  1846!  His  boat  was 
anchored  there  and  he  had  been  wakened  at  dawn  by  a 
vivid  dream.  It  had  taken  such  full  possession  of  him 
that  he  could  not  shake  off  its  charm,  so  he  forthwith 
addressed  her  who  had  been  "the  queen"  in  his  sleep. 
He  described  his  vision  of  a  "salon  of  white  panel  work. 
In  the  recess  of  this  salon,  and  seated  before  a  piano 
where  her  fingers  wandered  carelessly,  there  was  a 
woman,  inspired  and  pensive — a  muse  and  a  saint.  I 
recognized  this  woman,  and  I  murmured  as  if  she 
could  hear  me: — 'I  greet  you,  Marie,  full  of  grace — 
my  thoughts  are  with  you.'  " 

Speaking  again  of  "this  recess  where  the  piano  stood 
and  where  you  sang,"  he  exclaimed:  "It  is  indeed  rare 
that  I  do  not  say  to  myself,  when  I  write  a  chapter 
which  pleases  me,  or  when  I  finish  a  book  that  is  well 
done — 'Marie  Nodier,  that  precious  spirit,  will  read 
this!'  "  And  after  giving  a  description  of  those  who 
were  always  present  at  the  old  soirees,  he  thus  closed 
the  tender,  emotional  missive:   "And,  finally,  that  little 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    85 

girl,  slipping  back  and  forth  among  all  the  poets,  paint- 
ers, composers,  great  men — the  men  of  esprit  and  the 
savants!  That  little  girl  whom  I  took  in  the  hollow 
of  my  hand  and  held  up  as  if  she  were  a  statuette  of 
Barye  or  Pradier!  O,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  what  has 
become  of  it  all,  Marie?  .  .  .  Vigny  has  become 
invisible;  Lamartine  is  depute;  Hugo  is  peer  of  France; 
and  my  son  and  I  are  at  Carthage!" 

Such  was  this  letter,  filled  with  an  affection  that 
seemed  born  of  a  loverlike  paternity — filled  with  the 
vision  which  effaced  for  Dumas  that  morning  the  mirific 
bay  and  panorama  of  Tunis  and  their  hints  of  mirage. 
We  too  were  full  of  this  dream  of  her  and  of  the  old 
salon  in  the  Arsenal  as  we  passed  one  eve  the  little 
gray-walled  cemetery  of  the  flowery-laned  village  of 
Fontenay-aux-Roses  in  the  environs  of  Paris.  Entering 
and  standing  by  her  grave,  we  let  the  fragrance  of  her 
delicious  souvenir  trail  over  our  consciousness;  we 
scented  the  sanctuary  of  our  love  and  veneration  for 
her  remembrance  with  the  incense  of  the  Arvers  sonnet. 
And  there  came  to  our  lips  the  words  of  Sainte-Beuve 
almost  as  if  they  had  been  written  for  her,  instead  of 
for  her  dead  father  fifty  years  ago — "the  name  of  him 
(her)  who  has  been  nothing,  who  has  been  able  to  do 
nothing,  who  has  had  no  other  power  than  that  of 
pleasing  and  charming — this  name  was  in  a  moment 
upon  our  tongues,  and  every  one  shed  tears." 

The  praise  of  her  was  sung  of  a  sweet,  simple  wo- 
manhood. She  was  worshiped  for  this  in  all  its  pure  es- 
sence and  filial  naturalness.  Living  long  and  well  until 
the  age  of  eighty-two,  she  was  destined  to  be  known  to 


86         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

no  catalogue  of  art,  nor  anthology,  nor  history  of  noted 
French  women;  nor  did  even  wealth  display  its  glamour 
about  her,  since  she  was  a  daughter  without  dot,  for 
whom  her  father  had  to  sell  his  library  in  order  to 
provide  her  trousseau.  Glory,  with  his  profane  love 
of  earthly  fame  and  noise  of  deed,  records  her  not  be- 
cause she  did  nothing;  but  her  illustrious  friends,  in  a 
beautiful  cult  which  delights  the  heart  and  refreshes  the 
soul,  preserved  to  posterity  her  memory  for  what  she 
ivas — something  that  is  more  precious  to  the  Christian 
ideal.  She  might  have  said  with  another:  "My  talent 
perhaps  would  have  been  greater,  if  I  had  not  been  a 
wife  and  mother."  For  that  matter,  Madame  Men- 
nessier  was  of  her  race  in  that  French  women  have 
always  been  inspirers  rather  than  creators  in  literature 
and  art.  Yet  we  scarcely  think  of  Madame  Mennes- 
sier  as  French.  Her  memory  belongs  to  every  clime 
and  country.  She  was  an  ideal  that  would  flee  the 
thought  of  race  and  sect  and  locality.  No  national 
boundary  is  so  high  and  no  race  pride  or  prejudice  so 
narrow  as  to  resist  the  winning  legend  of  her  charm. 
She  was  a  cosmopolitan  type.  Parisian  in  her  gayety, 
esprit  and  conversational  gifts,  German  in  her  music, 
English  in  her  free  girl's  life  and  in  her  hospitable 
domesticity,  she  unconsciously  infuses  us  with  a  lesson 
of  the  sisterhood  of  races  and  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
As  we  turned  to  go,  ov^erflowing  with  these  thoughts 
and  feelings,  the  little  stock  of  vendible  flowers  at  the 
cemetery  gate  looked  us  significantly  in  the  eyes.  And, 
full  of  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  we  took  two  roses 


Daughter  of  the  French  Romantics    87 

and  laid  them  on  her  tomb — a  red  rose  for  the  Ro- 
mantic school,  a  white  rose  in  token  of  her  sainted 
womanliness,  and  both  to  her  honor  as  the  true  and 
adored  daughter  of  the  French  Romantics.  Then  we 
closed  the  gate  softly  and  came  away  in  the  dusk. 


iii.    The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet 


THE  GREAT  ERA  OF  THE  FRENCH  BALLET 

I THE  FAMOUS  DANSEUSES 

ANY  inquiry  into  the  evolution  in  the  nineteenth 
century  ballet  tempts  only  a  word  about  that 
long  period  of  the  dance  which  coursed  from 
the  era  of  Louis  XIV,  its  first  magnificent  patron  in 
France,  to  the  epoch  of  Taglioni.  Yet  during  the  eigh- 
teenth century  the  theater  dance  flourished  preeminently 
among  the  Parisians.  One  reads  of  Camargo  who, 
about  1730,  leaped  the  first  entrechat  in  their  capital. 
She  mounted  entrechats-4.  Thirty  years  later  en- 
trechats-6  were  seen  there,  followed  after  a  time  by 
entrechats-8. 

In  her  days,  too,  there  was  the  famous  Salle,  whom 
Voltaire  made  the  pendant  to  her  in  some  memorable 
verses.  Salle  invented  the  ballet-pantomime  and  did 
more  to  form  the  ballet  into  what  it  is  to-day  than  any 
danseuse  before  Taglioni.  One  learns  that  the  dance 
of  Salle  was  naive,  graceful,  frilled  neither  with  gam- 
bades nor  sauts,  and  that  she  never  scaled  an  entrechat 
nor  twirled  a  pirouette. 

Ballets  were  the  favorable  diversion  in  the  fetes  of 
the  Court  and  nobility  in- those  times,  as  may  be  judged 
from  the  fact  that  the  famous  duchess  of  Maine  dis- 
ported in  at  least  thirty-seven.    The  theater  dance  sup- 

91 


92  French  Essays  and  Profiles 

plied  the  models  for  the  manners  and  courtesies  of 
society,  French  politeness  and  grace  were  due  in  no 
small  measure  to  the  cult  of  the  ballet  among  the  best 
classes. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  dancer  Martel  said  he  could 
always  tell  a  statesman  by  his  walk.  For,  as  a  rule,  the 
leading  Frenchmen  of  the  century  not  only  loved  the 
spectacular  dance,  but  took  pride  in  imitating  its  ele- 
gancies. Frederick  the  Great,  the  then  Frenchman  of 
Germany,  spoke  from  experience  when  he  observed 
that  he  "should  rather  manage  an  army  than  a  ballet, 
for  it  is  easier  to  win  a  battle  than  make  a  ballet 
dance." 

In  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
ballet,  as  an  art  of  the  theater,  progressed  far  more 
than  during  the  years  before  1750.  It  was  after  this 
year  that  Noverre  crystallized,  as  it  were,  the  mod- 
ern "ballet  of  action"  (ballet-pantomime).  His 
"Letters"  on  the  dance  will  doubtless  ever  remain  the 
most  classic  literary  composition  on  the  subject. 

Then  came  Vestris,  more  celebrated  than  any  male 
dancer  whose  name  has  descended  with  history.  He 
was  famous  for  his  dancing  and  for  his  remark :  "There 
are  only  three  men  in  Europe:  the  king  of  Prusshy, 
mossieu  de  Voltaire,  and  me."  Probably  the  greatest 
danseuse  of  that  time  was  la  Guimard,  whose  sumptu- 
ous style  of  living  and  noisy  career  caused  her  to  be, 
in  a  way,  quite  a  formida^ble  rival  to  the  Court  itself, 
adept  as  it  was  in  the  matter  of  sensations.  Under 
Napoleon  and  the  Restoration,  the  theater  dance  was 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet     93 

relatively  insignificant  until,  suddenly,  Taglioni  ap- 
peared and  idealized  it. 

The  male  dancer  predominated  in  the  ballet  before 
the  era  of  Taglioni.  It  was  he  who  developed  and 
displayed  the  dance  as  Blasis  described  it  about  1829  in 
his  scholarly  and  authoritative  book.  On  the  other 
hand,  by  contrast,  the  danseuse  relied  largely  on  grace- 
ful attitudes,  wavings  of  arms,  poses  of  head,  and  co- 
quetries of  smiles  and  toilets.  She  did  not  revel  in  the 
dances  par  en  haut  with  all  their  dexterous  liveliness. 
Her  art  was  comparatively  confined  to  the  upper  half 
of  the  body.  She  sought  to  be  a  Ninon  de  L'enclos  in 
the  role  of  a  ballet  personage — a  kind  of  grand  dame 
who  did  not  seek  to  triumph  by  difficult  evolutions. 

Blasis  laid  down  this  rule:  "Men  must  dance  in  a 
manner  very  different  from  women;  the  temps  de  vig- 
ueur*  and  bold,  majestic  exertions'of  the  former,  would 
have  a  disagreeable  effect  in  the  latter,  who  must  shine 
and  delight  by  lithesome,  graceful  motions,  by  neat  and 
pretty  steps  on  the  ground  (terre-a-terre),  and  by  a 
decent  voluptuousness  and  abandon  in  all  attitudes." 

The  illustrative  evidence  of  the  simplicity  of  the  art 
of  the  danseuse  before  Taglioni  is  seen  in  the  plates 
that  Blasis  produces.  Herein  the  ballerlne  is  shown  as 
wearing  a  thin  robe  reaching  almost,  if  not  fully,  to  the 
ankle,  and  clinging  somewhat  to  the  body — a  garment 
which  would  make  severe  pas  impossible.  Her  foot,  In 
these  many  engravings,  is  lifted  above  the  level  of  the 
knee  only  in  two  Instances,  and  then  scarcely  up  to  the 

*  A  temps  de  vigueur  is  any  vigorous  movement  of  the  legs. 


94         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

plane  of  the  hip,  and,  too,  behind,  not  in  front;  so  that 
she  details  but  the  easiest  movements  and  always  pre- 
serves the  most  decorous  attitudes.  Nevertheless,  the 
methods  were  sensualistic  as  taught  by  Vestris,  the 
great  teacher  of  the  dance  in  Paris  in  the  early  part  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  Vestris  seemed  to  think  that 
the  dance  should  seduce — should  corrupt,  in  fact. 

All  the  foregoing,  however,  was  quickly  to  be  for- 
gotten for  a  new  and  ideal  art  with  which  a  dancer 
known  as  Taglioni,  who  had  a  daughter  named  Marie, 
was  to  inspire  the  world.  The  divertissements  dis- 
played by  the  ballerine  of  to-day  date  in  France  from 
about  1829  when  Marie  Taglioni  finally  signed  a  long 
engagement  with  the  directors  of  the  Grand  Opera. 
Of  her  performance,  and  of  that  of  her  brilliant  succes- 
sors, there  is  really  little  exact,  satisfactory  knowledge, 
since  the  art  of  the  danseuse,  like  that  of  the  orator, 
the  singer,  the  actor,  melts  into  air  and  is  apt  to  be  lost 
to  precise  trace. 

One  learns- that  Taglioni  was  born  in  1804,  in  Stock- 
holm, of  Italian  parents,  and  was  consequently  twenty- 
four  years  of  age  when  she  was  first  engaged  at  the 
Paris  Opera.  Her  father  trained  her,  and  they  fol- 
lowed their  own  fantasies  in  their  profession.  They 
had  enjoyed  perfect  independence  before  they  came  to 
Paris,  for  they  had  never  been  connected  regularly  with 
a  theater. 

Free  from  the  corsets  of  the  then  school,  their  dance 
donned  the  draperies  of  inspiration.  Castil-Blaze  re- 
marked that  Taglioni's  grace  was  naive;  that  her  pas 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet     95 

were  at  once  seemly  and  voluptuous;  that  she  was 
gifted  with  an  extreme  lightness;  and  that  the  newness 
of  her  effects  came  from  Nature  and  not  from  rubric. 
Her  sylphlike  manner,  he  repeats,  was  elegant,  facile, 
and  of  gentle  contours. 

Dr.  Veron,  who  was  the  director  of  the  Paris  Opera 
when  Taglioni  soared  into  the  fullest  flight  of  her  glory, 
noted  her  lightness,  her  elevation,*  and  above  all  her 
ballon.**  He  emphasizes  that  her  dance  partook  of 
delicacy,  taste  and  authority;  that  she  possessed  a 
naivete  almost  mystically  religious;  that  all  women 
were  her  enthusiastic  champions  because  her  art  was 
so  modest  and  refined  and  her  homeliness  so  excep- 
tional. He  writes  that  her  legs  suggested  those  of 
Diana;  that  her  bust  was  short  and  narrow  and  that 
her  arms  were  very  long.  This  explains  why  she  was 
sometimes  called  the  "little  hunchback."  He  says  that 
she  did  not  lack  esprit,  and  was  fond  of  raillery.  She 
plied  her  task  during  four  hours  a  day.  Neither 
fatigue,  perspiration,  nor  tears  on  her  part  ever  per- 
suaded her  father  to  shirk  the  daily  lesson.  She  re- 
ceived six  thousand  dollars  a  year,  with  three  months' 
leave  of  absence. 

Unfortunately,  Blasis's  volume,  which  is  to-day  the 
best  general  and  practical  authority  on  the  dance,  since 
Noverre  has  become  somewhat  archaic  and  circum- 
scribed, was  written  a  little  before  Taglioni's  time,  and 
he  never  mentions  her  name.     Adice  testified  that  she 

*  To  appear  elevated  from  the  ground. 

**  To  have  ballon  is  to  be  able  to  leap  lightly  from  the  stage  to  a 
great  height. 


96         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

excelled  in  executing  an  adage*  with  aplomb  and  pre- 
cision. In  1856,  Saint-Leon,  the  great  choregraph, 
thus  spoke  of  her:  "Taglioni  did  not  dance  better  than 
her  precursors,  but  her  dance  differed  in  kind.  She  was 
above  all  remarkable  because  of  a  mixture  of  poetry 
and  simplicity,  of  grace  and  suavity.  She  was  criticized 
at  first  because  she  almost  always  held  her  arms 
lowered,  and  carried  her  body  bent  forward;  still  these 
happy  defects  made  her  a  sensation.  She  did  not  heed 
so  much  the  rules  of  the  'school'  as  did  the  danseuses 
before  her  time,  yet  more  than  do  our  danseuses 
of  to-day. 

"Her  gift  was  a  certain  something  that  charmed,  and 
created  a  furor.  She  educated  the  public  thenceforth 
to  demand  a  talent  type — a  star.  She  concentrated  all 
interest  on  herself,  and  ballets,  whose  effects  reposed  in 
the  ensemble,  went  out  of  fashion.  The  environment  of 
the  corps  de  ballet  was  effaced  so  that  it  might  not  dis- 
tract attention  from  the  queen  of  the  evening.  Even 
the  glory  of  the  male  dancer  hopelessly  paled  because, 
in  trying  unsuccessfully  to  invent  for  himself  some  new 
mode  that  would  correspond  to  Taglioni's  creation,  he 
lost  'school.'  " 

(Notice  may  at  once  be  called  to  the  fact  that  Saint- 
Leon  erred  in  observing  that  Taglioni  did  not  dance 
better  than  her  precursors.  His  confusion  arises  be- 
cause he  does  not  happen  to  distinguish  between  male 
and  female  dancers.  Taglioni  may  not  have  detailed, 
and  probably,  on  the  whole,  did  not  detail,  so  much 

*  Adages,  or  developpes,   are  various  poses.     These   poses,   leaped, 
make  up  the  greater   part  of  the   dance. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet     97 

difficult  skill  as  her  male  forerunners;  but  she  certainly 
achieved  more  expert  and  exhausting  pas  and  evolu- 
tions and  displayed  more  grace  than  her  female  prede- 
cessors, as  will  be  remarked  further  on.) 

There  was  in  1900,  in  Paris,  a  venerable  gentleman 
who  had  been  connected  with  the  ballet  for  sixty  years. 
He  saw  Taglioni  dance,  likewise  nearly  all  of  the  bal- 
lerines  who  have  appeared  in  France  since  her  day.  He 
said  that  she  was  a  little  taller  and  larger  than  Fanny 
Elssler;  that,  while  the  latter  had  a  prettier  face,  Tag- 
lioni was  better  proportioned  and  had  more  harniony 
of  physique;  and  that  she  outdanced  Elssler,  for  it 
was  the  mere  art  of  the  dance  that  won  with  her, 
whereas  Elssler  freely  exploited  on  the  stage  her  claims 
as  a  seductive  woman.  He  also  said,  comparing  Ta- 
glioni with  her  successors,  that  she  was  good  in  dra- 
matic pantomime;  that  she  mounted  very  well  on  the 
pointes  while  not  relying  on  them  particularly;  and 
that  she  paid  little  notice  to  pirouettes  on  the  pointes. 

The  accepted  French  account  of  her  runs  about  like 
this : — We  are  told  that  she  personified  delicate  grace, 
exquisite  taste,  correctness,  aerial  lightness  and  chaste- 
ness.  She  coiled  in  facile  undulations;  her  arms  curved 
in  an  elegance  of  action;  her  feet  posed  on,  or  skimmed 
over,  the  ground  without  noise,  as  if  she  were  a  sylph. 
Appearing  and  disappearing  like  a  dream,  a  vision,  she 
was  now  a  veritable  winged  caprice,  and  then  a  tender, 
affecting  elegy,  with  her  eyes  bathed  in  tears  and  her 
wings  fallen.  She  writhed  in  no  lascivious  contortions, 
and  offered  no  sensualities.     She  poetized  the  dance. — 

"La  Sylphide"  and  "la  Fille  du  Danube"  were  her 


98         French  Essays  and  Profiles 

finest  triumphs;  yet  scarcely  less  famous  were  her 
creations  of  the  pas  tyrolienne  in  Rossini's  "Tell,"  and 
the  pas  de  fascination  in  Meyerbeer's  "Robert  le 
Diable."  She  was  not  a  woman  but  a  charm,  and  be- 
came the  synonym  of  the  purest  traditions  of  that 
Terpsichorean  art  which  is  ideal  and  neither  realistic 
nor  voluptuous. 

Many  of  the  greatest  men  of  literature  in  that  day 
were  fond  of  singing  her  praises.  Balzac,  Thackeray 
and  Musset  wrote  of  her,  and  Banvllle  versified  her  as 
the  daughter  of  the  sylphs.  Gautier  refers  to  her 
vaporous  grace,  and  to  her  "chaste  school  which  makes 
of  the  dance  an  almost  immaterial  art  by  reason  of  a 
modest  distinction,  of  a  retiring  reserve,  and  of  a  vir- 
ginal diaphaneity." 

In  attempting,  from  the  foregoing,  to  fashion  In 
one's  vision  with  something  like  precise  fancy  the  aerial 
model  of  her  art,  the  word  sylph  seems  best  to  serve 
the  purpose.  Lithe,  suave,  airy,  TaglionI  must  have 
appeared  as  of  the  skies.  She  transposed  the  dance 
into  the  key  of  mythology  and  gave  it  the  classic 
phrasing.  Her  winged  celerities  and  hoverlngs,  her 
fragile  moods  of  tear-gauzed  sorrow  and  flitting  vi- 
vacities, all  molded  into  the  sculpturesque  danse  noble 
— the  "dance  serious"  and  ideal. 

There  were  no  excesses,  no  boldnesses,  no  self-tor- 
turings,  no  self-consciousness.  It  was  an  impersonal 
representation,  in  which  the  warm-handed,  individual- 
istic woman  was  effaced  In  a  type  of  removed  an'd  re- 
frigerant ethereality.  She  transferred  the  fancied 
pantheons  of  Greece  and  Rome,  In  their  traceries  of 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet     99 

neat  proportions  and  white  vistas,  to  the  crepuscular 
world  of  blue  gleams  and  slate-colored  hues  which  a 
stage  moonlight  spreads  abroad  in  the  realms  of  the 
modern  theater.  She  attached  the  seal  of  classicality 
to  an  art  which  had  been  mincing  artificially,  coquet- 
tishly,  wantonly,  in  the  domains  of  the  ancien  regime. 

Taglioni  not  only  etherealized  the  dance  but  she  de- 
tailed a  more  elaborate  performance  than  the  dan- 
seuses  who  preceded  her.  A  reference  to  Blasis's 
work  proves  this  conclusively.  It  is  true  that  she  did 
not  follow  what  was  called  "the  school"  so  closely  as 
they,  yet  following  the  dry  rules  of  "the  school"  does 
not  produce  a  star,  for  none  of  the  ballerines  from 
Salle  and  Camargo  to  Taglioni  is  remembered  merely 
for  her  dancing.  The  fact  that  Taglioni's  skirts  were 
slightly  convex  and  were  shorter  and  stiffer  than  those 
of  her  predecessors  indicates  that  she  accomplished 
more  expert  pas  than  had  ever  been  known. 

In  the  first  place,  she  indulged  somewhat  in  pointe 
dancing,  whereas  that  had  not  been  practiced  by  either 
her  male  or  female  predecessors.  There  is  no  chapter 
on  pointes  in  the  book  of  Blasis.  He  speaks  of  them, 
but  his  illustrations  show  that  he  means  what  are  called 
nowadays  demi-pointes — balancing  on  the  toe,  not  on 
the  tip  of  the  toe — an  altogether  different  and  more 
difficult  performance.  Furthermore,  Taglioni  was  the 
first  to  claim  the  grande  vigueur  for  her  sex,  and  to 
create  the  ballon  for  which  she  is  famous.  The  ballon 
is  one  of  the  most  exhausting  and  crucial  exhibitions  on 
the  ballet  stage,  yet  the  word  is  scarcely  mentioned,  if 
at  all,  by  Blasis. 


100       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

This  fully  explains  the  significant  result  of  the  Ta- 
glionization  of  the  dance,  namely,  that  the  scepter  of 
Terpsichorean  glory  was  therein  definitively  snatched 
by  woman  from  the  hand  of  man.  Before  Taglioni's 
day,  most  of  the  distinctively  great  dancers  were  men, 
and  to  them  the  art  owed  most  of  its  progress.  Since 
her  time,  nearly  all  the  leading  artists  have  been 
women ;  the  transformations  of  the  dance  have  been  due 
to  their  revelations;  and  it  has  indeed  become  almost 
wholly  their  own  prize.  The  point  of  departure  for 
the  new  and  aerial  art  of  Taghoni  lay  in  the  free  and 
dexterous  use  of  the  legs.  In  their  skill  of  flight  she 
could  buoy  up  her  lightness  and  grand  ballon  and  make 
herself  seem  a  shapely  form  floating  hither  and  thither. 
Her  arms,  face  and  body  entered  fully  into  the  easy 
harmony  of  her  evolutions,  so  that  one  part  of  her 
person  was  not  sacrificed  for  another,  and  she  was 
therefore  able  to  present  a  perfect  ensemble  of  volatile 
grace  such  as  is  fancied  in  a  sylph. 

When  one  muses  over  the  Taglioni  tradition,  he 
may  think  of  the  contrast  offered  by  this  striking  pas- 
sage in  the  "Journal"  of  Alfred  de  Vigny :  "If  I  were  a 
painter,  I  should  like  to  be  a  Raphael-black;  angelic 
form,  somber  color."  Were  one  a  dancer,  would  she 
not  divinely  long  to  be  a  Taglioni-white;  sylphine  form, 
color  of  the  cool  Pentelic? 

The  Elsslers  were  Germans.  The  two  sisters  came 
to  Paris  in  1834.  Therese  was  a  tall,  large  woman, 
and  the  Viennese  called  her  The  Majestic  One.  Energy 
and  virility  characterized  her.    She  was  a  very  correct 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  loi 

and  schooled  danseuse.  Her  more  celebrated  sister, 
Fanny,  was  born  in  Vienna  in  1810.  About  1840  she 
toured  in  America  where,  as  she  wrote  Gautier  with  de- 
light, "people  throw  flowers  into  my  carriage  and  men 
lift  their  hats  to  me  in  the  street." 

A  sketch  of  her  is  thus  traced  by  a  contemporary: 
"Inimitable  delicacy,  gentleness,  a  fine  and  light  dis- 
tinction in  bearing,  a  supple  agihty,  a  coquetry  always 
active  and  ardent,  the  art  of  fascination,  a  sensuous  in- 
telligence which  is  reflected  by  her  whole  body,  and, 
finally,  a  delicious  mincing  air,  are  the  outlines  of  her 
portrait.  Her  person  is  in  accord  with  her  talent.  Her 
body  is  slender;  her  face  noble  and  piquant,  and  its  ex- 
pression distinguished,  spirituelle  and  provoking;  her 
glances  are  soft  and  caressing,  and  speak  without  ef- 
frontery. She  even  transforms  some  defects  into  at- 
tractions. Her  feeble  and  wearied  appearance  appears 
to  testify  that  secret  ardors  burn  within  her.  She 
dances  to  charm,  to  trample  the  spectator  under  foot. 
Taglioni  revealed  to  us  the  dance  of  heaven;  Elssler 
desires  the  love  of  man.  If  the  one  is  the  sister  of  the 
angels,  the  other  is  the  most  adorable  of  the  daughters 
of  earth." 

The  usual  memorial  of  her  is  about  as  follows: — 
Her  beauty  was  frail  and  delicate.  She  possessed  great 
talent,  but  the  expression  of  the  pantomime,  substituted 
for  the  charm  of  the  dance,  was  what  people  admired  in 
her.  She  had  grace  and  executed  tours  de  force  on  the 
pointes.  She  was  reproached  for  a  lack  of  lightness, 
yet  her  mobile  face  and  the  vivacity  of  her  gestures  lent 


102       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

themselves  marvelously  to  the  play  of  the  passions,  and 
she  left  traditions  in  all  her  roles.  The  cachucha*  was 
her  triumph,  and  she  made  all  Europe  know  its  signifi- 
cation. With  her  castanets  and  her  mimicry  full  of 
meaning  and  admirably  served  by  entrancing  music,  she 
caused  the  public  to  forget  Taglioni  for  a  moment, 
though  she  did  not  equal  the  latter  in  the  art  of  the 
dance.  Elssler  never  approached  the  stage  without 
terror,  but  her  fear  gave  way  to  a  furious  gayety  as 
soon  as  the  orchestra  struck  up. — 

It  was  remarked  that  she  had  no  grand  elans,  still 
she  exhibited  a  highly-wrought  finish,  and  executed  a 
trill  of  battements  like  Paganini's  bow.  Gautier  says, 
in  speaking  of  her  as  the  cachucha  Incarnate  compared 
with  Taglioni  as  the  incarnation  of  a  sylph:  "She  is 
masculinity  effeminated,  like  Antinoiis.  Her  move- 
ments are  made  up  of  this  dual  nature:  with  all  her 
amorous  languor  and  feminine  gentleness,  one  feels 
the  brusque  strength  and  the  steel-limbed  agility  of  a 
young  athlete.  She  is  the  first  to  introduce  at  the 
Opera — the  sanctuary  of  the  classic  pirouette — a 
fougue,  a  petulance  and  a  passionate  temperament. 

"They  call  her,  by  way  of  compliment,  a  Spaniard  of 
the  North.  This  double  trait  is  a  subject  for  criticism, 
not  praise.  She  is  German  by  reason  of  her  smile, 
whiteness  of  her  skin,  form  of  face,  placidness  of  brow; 
she  is  Spanish  by  reason  of  her  hair,  her  little  feet,  her 
small,  slender  hands,  the  somewhat  bold  curving  at 
the  hips.     Two  natures,   two   temperaments,   combat 

*  The  cachucha  is  a  Spanish  dance  which  combines  the  qualities  of 
the  rapid  fandango  with  those  of  the  more  majestic  bolero:  that  is 
to  say,  it  is  sometimes  calm,  sometimes  gay,  sometimes  passionate. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  103 

each  other  in  her,  and  her  beauty  would  gain  if  it  could 
decide  for  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  types.  She 
is  pretty,  yet  she  lacks  a  race;  she  hesitates  between 
Spain  and  Germany.  And  this  indecision  announces  it- 
self in  the  matter  of  sex:  her  hips  are  but  slightly  de- 
veloped and  her  chest  does  not  exceed  the  curves  of 
the  antique  Hermaphrodite.  While  she  is  a  very  charm- 
ing woman,  she  would  be  the  most  charming  boy  in  the 
world." 

Referring  to  her  in  1838,  Gautier  wrote:  *'Fanny 
has  a  fire,  an  entrain,  and  a  suppleness  beyond  imagina- 
tion. She  accords  to  her  poses  a  proud,  spirited  ac- 
cent— something  so  bravely  voluptuous  that  it  would 
make  the  most  enraged  dancers  of  Seville  burn  with 
envy.  Her  cachucha  is  becoming  thoroughly  Spanish. 
She  daily  gives  way  more  and  more  to  this  divine  dance 
strewn  with  languors  and  petulances.  It  seems  rather 
singular  that  a  Spanish  dance  has  been  brought  to  us 
by  a  German;  but  genius,  is  it  not  of  all  countries?" 

It  is  apparent  that  Fanny  Elssler  lacked  the  mytho- 
logical, aerial  grace  of  Taglioni.  She  was  a  woman 
first,  a  danseuse  afterward.  She  associated  the  dance 
with  her  Germanic  passion  for  music,  and  consumed  all 
in  the  glowing  sensuousness  of  a  strongly  feminine 
nature.  Hence  she  was  good  in  pantomime.  Her 
mimicry  was  "full  of  finesse  in  that  she  imitated  turn  by 
turn,  and  with  remarkable  truth,  comedian,  coquette, 
quarreling  page,  and  libertine." 

This  preeminence  of  beauty,  sensuous  coquetry,  ver- 
tiginous vivacity,  and  disposition  to  indulge  in  tours  de 
force,  made  her,  in  the  ballet  era  since  1829,  the  first 


104       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

and  most  celebrated  danseuse  de  demi-caractere,  and 
the  companion  in  fame  of  Taglioni,  the  impersonal  per- 
fection of  the  danse  noble.  Fanny  Elssler  moved  not 
along  the  classic  lines  of  a  generalized  ideality  that 
seems  of  no  race  nor  epoch;  but  she  characterized  her 
dance  by  her  warm-limbed  individuality,  and  by  her 
sentiments  of  locality  and  nationality,  as  immortalized 
in  her  cachucha.  By  these  terre-a-terre  and  more  real- 
istic features  of  the  dance,  she  made  up  so  very  largely 
for  her  comparative  lack  of  the  grander  Taglioni 
motives — grande  vigueur,  grand  ballon. 

Carlotta  Grisi  quickly  danced  into  Parisian  favor  in 
1840.  She  was  taught  by  the  famous  Perrot  who  be- 
came her  husband.  She  created  "Giselle,"  one  of  the 
renowned  jballets  of  the  century.  Its  libretto  was  partly 
from  the  pen  of  Gautier,  who  seemed  always  to  look 
back  upon  "Giselle"  with  a  satisfacti'on  only  surpassed 
by  that  with  which  he  recalled  the  battle  of  Hernani. 
"Giselle"  was  the  greatest  triumph  of  the  Grisi,  al- 
though in  "la  Peri"  she  accomplished  a  perilous  leap 
which,  it  is  said,  has  never  been  undertaken  in  the  same 
way  by  any  one.  She  danced  for  pleasure — coming, 
going,  bounding  hither  and  thither,  and  charming  all 
hearts  with  her  bright,  laughing  face  as  well  as  by  the 
perfection  of  her  method. 

Gautier,  who  soon  came  under  her  spell  and  aban- 
doned somewhat  his  ardor  for  the  art  of  Elssler, 
writes  of  Carlotta:  "Her  dance  is  light  and  correct. 
She  is  aerial,  and  modest  like  Elssler,  and  has  a  happy 
and  communicative  gayety.  She  was  a  singer  and  loved 
music,  and  her  career  hesitated  sometime  between  Eu- 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  105 

terpe  and  Terpsichore.  Carlotta  has  rhythmic  har- 
mony of  movement,  finish  of  detail,  and  elegance  and 
neatness  of  pose.  In  pantomime,  she  omits  no  traits 
of  gentleness,  naivete,  sentiment  and  expression,  and 
her  play  has  grace  and  vigor.  She  dances  as  if  sport- 
ing, and  all  scenes  are  easy  for  her." 

Carlotta  Grisi  married  the  art  of  Elssler  to  that  of 
Taglioni.  Indeed,  she  "held  an  intermediate  place  be- 
tween them."  She  added  lightness  to  the  one  and  joy- 
ousness  to  the  other  without  equaling  either.  She  gave 
a  delicate,  classic  form  to  the  dance  of  Elssler  and, 
possessed  of  a  birdlike  and  sunny  Italian  temperament, 
she  capered  from  Taglioni's  realm  into  the  domain  of 
demi-caractere.  La  Grisi  was  Elssler  and  Taglioni 
blended  in  miniature.  She  suggested  perhaps  one  of 
Gautier's  own  "Emaux  et  Camees"  enlivened  into  joy- 
ousness.  What  Elssler  had  done  for  Germany  and 
Spain,  vis-a-vis  the  mythological  (the  Greek)  concep- 
tion of  Taglioni,  Grisi  did  for  Italy.  Her  memory,  so 
lauded  by  Gautier,  remains  one  of  the  most  delightful 
souvenirs  that  haunt  the  Paris  Opera. 

During  the  epoch  of  Grisi,  there  was  seen  in  Paris 
a  danseuse  of  whom  very  little  information  can  be 
gathered  from  literature.  It  was  Priora.  She  is  said 
to  have  been  a  large,  elegant,  distinguished  looking 
person,  and  was  of  so  cold  a  nature  that  she  never 
laughed  or  smiled  on  or  off  the  stage.  Those  who 
saw  her  say  that  she  perfected  the  danse  noble:  that 
she  had  more  correctness  and  reach,  more  stately 
grandeur,  more  of  a  lofty  flight,  than  Taglioni. 

After  Grisi,  one  comes  to  a  new  variety  of  dance 


io6       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

which  was  impersonated  by  the  dainty  and  piquant 
Cerrito.  She  was  of  ItaHan  origin.  She  came  to  the 
Opera  in  Paris  in  1847,  ^"^  was  reengaged  five  years 
later.  In  London  about  1845,  she  had  danced  a  pas 
de  quatre  with  Taglioni,  Elssler  and  Grisi.  The  world 
will  doubtless  never  witness  again  such  a  group  of 
danseuses  as  was  this,  for  therein  the  four  most  hon- 
ored fairies  of  the  modern  dance  interlaced  their  steps. 

Fanny  Cerrito  took  up  the  wreath  of  glory  which 
Grisi  had  left  behind  in  the  French  capital.  It  appears 
that  she  was  as  light  as  a  caprice,  that  her  dance  was 
wholly  one  of  fantasy,  that  she  captivated  by  her  en- 
train, and  that  the  Italians  called  her  "the  fourth 
Grace"  because  of  the  charm  of  her  person.  The 
flowery  though  commonplace  bust  of  her  in  the  private 
foyer  of  the  Paris  Opera  shows  a  sweet  face  delicate- 
ly textured  and  neatly  compact,  a  mincing  yet  mobile 
mouth,  and  shoulders  that  sloped  in  wonderful  curves 
downward.  Saint-Leon  writes  only  this  of  his  wife: 
"Cerrito  is  a  reproduction  of  Taglioni  but  more 
naive.  She  is  a  dancer  of  inspiration  and  nature,  with 
less  school  than  either  Taglioni  or  Elssler." 

Cerrito  created  the  danse  de  fantaisie.  It  came  and 
went  with  her.  No  one  has  ever  put  a  competent  foot 
in  any  part  of  her  repertoire  Her  cajolery  seems  to 
have  been  indefinably  fanciful  and  light-trimmed — 
something  that  the  eye  and  pen  could  scarcely  seize.  It 
was  not  her  dancing  that  won,  for  she  was  not  really 
a  remarkable  danseuse.  She  triumphed  with  her  co- 
quetry, and  with  her  witching  manner.  It  was  the 
art  of  the  ingenue  spiced  up  by  an  experienced  woman. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  107 

Much  of  the  credit  of  her  creations  was  due  to  her 
husband. 

Another  Italian,  Rosati,  furnished  a  type  quite  dif- 
ferent from  any  yet  described.  She  came  to  Paris  in 
1853.  Her  tradition  runs  after  this  fashion: — A 
woman  with  a  feverish  head  and  a  look  lugubrious  and 
Satanic.  She  excelled  in  the  genre  vigorous,  noble  and 
pathetic;  scarcely  less  striking  in  laughing  and  informal 
roles;  unequaled  when  she  expressed  passion.  The 
most  delicate  nuances  were  rendered  by  her  mimicry 
with  precision  and  distinctness.  Nothing  vague  in 
her  sentiments;  yet  she  endeavored  to  ignore  details, 
thinking  that  a  few  well  selected  traits  sufficed  to  pro- 
duce the  most  surprising  effects.  Her  gestures  were 
simple,  and  her  attitudes  full  of  grace  and  harmony. 
She  left,  notably  In  "la  Sonnambula,"  ineffaceable  sou- 
venirs. Ingenious  and  Intelligent  in  the  conception  of 
impersonations,  now  fiery  and  then  affecting,  now  en- 
gulfed in  despair,  and  then  ravished  as  if  by  the  ecstasy 
of  delightful  reveries,  she  realized  in  pantomime  what 
RIstorl  accomplished  In  the  drama. — Those  who 
danced  with  her  say  that  Rosati  was  a  pretty,  well-pro- 
portioned brunette  of  about  the  size  of  Mile.  Subra, 
and  that  she  was  the  greatest  of  all  pantomime  bal- 
lerlnes,  and  also  an  exceptionally  good  comrade. 

Here  at  length  entered  the  drama  into  the  dance. 
Rosati  was  a  tragic  actress  who  expressed  the  grander 
moods  of  human  nature  with  everything  but  the  voice. 
In  her  there  seethed  the  black  passions  of  Italy  as  If 
she  had  come  from  some  brimstone  Vesuvius.  She 
exalted  the  danse  de  deml-caractere  into  epic  mimicry; 


io8       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

she  had  the  gift  of  heroic  contours.  She  was  the  last 
as  well  as  the  first  in  France,  in  the  nineteenth  century 
at  least,  to  outline  the  loftiest  reach  and  effectiveness 
of  the  pantomime, 

Ferraris  made  her  debut  in  Paris  in  1856.  Her  tri- 
umph in  the  "Elfes"  and  in  "Orfa"  was  noteworthy. 
She  surpassed  herself  in  "Graziosa"  (1861),  and  was 
called  "the  rival  of  Elssler."  It  is  recorded  that  she 
had  brilliant  and  varied  action,  that  she  was  light  and 
graceful  with  an  expressive  pantomime,  that  her  play 
was  bold  and  that  she  conceived  the  dance  (de  demi- 
caractere)  in  its  purest,  most  elevated,  most  erudite 
Italian  type. 

In  poor  Emma  Livry,  a  French  girl,  the  Parisians 
were  promised  a  revival  of  the  danse  noble  of  Taglioni. 
She  had  but  commenced  her  career  when  she  became 
the  victim  of  a  horrible  accident.  Her  costume  caught 
fire  at  a  rehearsal  and,  after  eight  months  of  a  martyr- 
dom of  torture,  she  died.  All  Paris  suffered  with  her 
pain,  and  did  full  honor  to  her  memory  at  the  inter- 
ment. 

Her  bust  in  the  Opera  exhibits  a  large-framed,  home- 
ly face,  yet  one  that  is  intelligent,  sympathetic  and 
kind — in  marked  contrast  to  that  of  the  dainty  and 
simpering  Cerrito,  its  companion  in  the  private  foyer. 
Emma  Livry  first  appeared  in  1858  in  "la  Sylphide," 
Taglioni's  magical  creation,  and  the  public  hailed  her 
classic  art  with  a  national  pride.  Taglioni  herself  came 
from  her  villa  on  Lake  Como  to  welcome  her  latest 
rival  in  fame.  She  one  day  gave  her  portrait  to  the 
young  danseuse,  with  this  happy  conceit:  "Make  me 


The  Great  Era.  of  the  Frencli  Ballet  109 

forgotten;  do  not  forget  me."  Emma  Livry  intro- 
duced only  two  roles.  One  of  them  was  "le  Papillon" 
— a  ballet  composed  in  part  by  Taglioni  who,  at  that 
epoch,  tarried  in  Paris  some  time.  Emma  Livry  was 
truly  a  danseuse  noble.  She  confined  the  dance  to  its 
classic  simplicity  and  nymphean  elegance. 

Gautier,  the  admirer  of  all  ballerines,  thus  speaks  of 
her:  "In  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  across  the  trans- 
parences  of  her  draperies,  whose  borders  her  feet 
scarcely  lifted,  one  would  have  said  she  was  a  happy 
shadow,  an  elysian  apparition,  sporting  in  a  bluish  ray. 
She  had  an  imponderable  lightness,  and  her  silent  flight 
traversed  space  without  our  hearing  even  a  thrill  in  the 
air.  She  imitated  the  butterfly  in  'le  Papillon' — a 
butterfly  that  poses  on  flowers  and  does  not  bend  them. 
And  alas!  like  one,  she  burned  her  wings  in  the  flames; 
and  two  white  butterflies,  as  if  they  wished  to  escort 
the  funeral  cortege  of  a  sister,  winged  their  snowy  way 
above  her  white  coflSn  during  its  whole  journey  to  the 
cemetery. 

"This  incident,  in  which  the  Greeks  would  have  seen 
a  poetic  symbol,  was  remarked  by  thousands  of  per- 
sons in  the  great  multitude  that  followed  the  burial 
chariot.  On  her  tomb  what  epitaph  shall  be  traced  if 
not  the  one  that  was  conceived  by  an  ancient  poet  for 
some  Emma  Livry  of  antiquity? — *0  earth,  weigh 
lightly  upon  me;  I  have  weighed  so  lightly  upon  thee.' 
The  public  wished  to  honor  the  modest  virtue  of  this 
pure  life,  in  whose  presence  scandal  has  ever  been 
silent.  If  anything  can  console  the  sorrow  of  the 
mother,  it  is  the  fact  that  there  were  in  the  proces- 


no       Frciicli  Essays  and  Profiles 

sion,  among  the  celebrities  of  the  Opera,  two  sisters  of 
charity  who  had  cared  for  her  daughter  in  the  Chris- 
tian agony  of  the  poor  girl." 

Boschetti,  a  danseuse  from  Milan,  came  to  Paris 
about  1 863  and  met  with  much  enthusiasm.  Pretty  and 
small,  she  was  only  seen,  as  a  rule,  in  "little  ballets." 
It  is  claimed  that  she  had,  to  French  eyes,  a  rival  in 
the  correct,  graceful  and  modest  Mourawieff.  Bos- 
chetti, it  is  said,  reveled  in  prodigious  bounds  and  delir- 
ious pirouettes.  She  displayed  a  passionate  fougue 
and  a  voluptuous  suppleness. 

The  usual  French  comment  on  her  was  about  as  fol- 
lows:— This  Italian  has  been  criticized  because  she  de- 
ployed an  exaggerated  mimicry;  but  it  has  been  over- 
looked that  the  Italian  choregraphs  have  always  ele- 
vated the  pantomime  to  a  degree  of  expression  reached 
in  no  other  country.  Boschetti  has  transported  to  our 
stage  the  historic,  traditional  pantomime  of  which  our 
dilettants  know  little.  Her  style  consists  more  of  the 
Neapolitan  tarantella  than  of  the  Spanish  bolero.  It  is 
not  without  grace,  nobility  and  majesty,  in  spite  of 
its  impetuosities.  She  recalls  an  ardent  sky  and  a 
burning  earth's  surface.  In  1864  her  triumph  was 
complete  in  Brussels  where  she  executed  the  dances 
of  many  races. — 

The  dance  of  Boschetti,  like  that  of  Rosati,  was  an 
Italian  transposition  of  the  danse  de  demi-caractere 
into  the  realm  of  pantomime.  But  she  did  not  tread 
along  such  grandiose  lines  of  the  art  as  Rosati:  she 
seems  to  have  given  the  furor  of  the  tarantella  to  the 
ballet,  and  the  frolic  of  Pulcinella  to  the  pantomime. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   iii 

Rita  Sangalli  was  a  Milanese,  and  created  in  New 
York  the  principal  role  in  "Black  Crook."  She  danced 
throughout  the  United  States  from  east  to  west,  and 
experienced  various  characteristic  phases  of  frontier 
life  in  America.  In  the  Far  West  she  often  went  armed 
in  order  to  defend  herself  from  the  Indians;  and  many 
times  she  took  gold  dust  and  game  in  pay  for  her  per- 
formances in  mining  towns  where  coins  and  bills  were  a 
scarce  medium  of  exchange. 

She  was  first  billed  at  the  Opera  in  Paris  in  1872. 
The  occasion  was  the  revival  of  "la  Source"  of  Delibes, 
wherein  she  met  with  a  gratifying  success  as  the  fairy 
in  the  enchanted  grotto.  She  shared  in  the  ceremonies 
in  connection  with  the  opening  of  the  New  Opera  in 
1875.  It  appears,  however,  that  Sangalli  was  not  an 
accomplished  ballerine.  Those  who  can  speak  from 
personal  knowledge  say  that  she  was  comparatively 
ignorant  of  the  art;  that  when  she  was  engaged  at  the 
Opera,  she  had  to  have  lessons  for  eight  months  be- 
fore she  was  considered  ready  to  grace  its  boards; 
that  her  superb  physique  and  her  marvelous  tours  des 
reins,  not  her  dancing,  brought  her  fame. 

In  Leontine  Beaugrand,  a  Parisienne,  the  Opera  had 
a  child  of  its  own.  She  began  to  assume  important 
roles  In  1864.  Gautier  spoke  of  her  dance  as  "grace- 
ful, correct  and  light-winged."  She  was  called  "an 
ornamentist  who,  in  a  flight,  makes  a  design  of  her 
taquetes  and  her  pointes.  It  is  exquisite,  slender,  deli- 
cate, like  a  fabric  of  lace."  Banville  wrote  of  her: 
"She  is  simple,  true  and  elegant  by  nature;  she  is  cor- 
rectly spirited;  she  Is  born  of  the  rules  of  the  dance  and 


112        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

of  its  purest  traditions."  Beaugrand's  greatest  success 
is  said  to  have  been  in  "Coppelia"  in  1 871,  in  which  she 
took  up  the  score  left  by  Bozzacchi.  This  role  was 
conceived  originally  for  Beaugrand. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  praise,  it  appears  that 
Beaugrand  had  "no  chance" — was  not  favored  of  for- 
tune. Nearly  always  she  saw  the  best  roles  distributed 
to  strangers,  for  the  reason  that  the  Opera  public  gen- 
erally prefers  the  exotic  sensation  of  a  foreign  baya- 
dere. A  native  ballerine,  however  excellent  her  art, 
does  not  magnetize  so  much  money  into  the  coffers  of 
the  Opera  as  a  danseuse  who  comes  from  afar. 

Beaugrand  had  the  French  traditions  of  delicacy, 
lightness  and  refinements  coupled  with  pointes  of  steel. 
Her  lofty  bearing  made  her  known,  despite  her  dimin- 
utiveness,  as  "the  marshal  of  the  dance."  Her  sudden 
retirement  from  the  Opera  raised  a  storm  of  protests, 
though  without  avail.  The  "Beaugrand  question"  was 
the  theme  of  the  day,  and  called  out  tributes  for  her 
even  from  such  distinguished  pens  as  that  of  Sully 
Prudhomme  who  arabesqued  her  neat  fame  in  one  of 
his  most  fragile  sonnets.  Although  a  danseuse  noble 
in  type,  she  was  so  small  that  she  presented,  as  it  were, 
the  danse  noble  of  a  little  girl.  She  fully  understood 
herself,  and  dignified  her  profession,  even  if  in  a  minia- 
ture way. 

Mile.  Fonta  was  an  intelligent  and  finished  danseuse 
noble — the  most  truly  noble  of  any  ballerine  at  the 
Opera  toward  1890,  for  she  had  what  Beaugrand 
lacked,  namely,  size.  She  retired  from  the  stage,  but 
was  to  be  seen  for  several  years  in  the  drawing  rooms 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  113 

of  the  French  metropolis.  Of  Marie  Vernon,  Fioretti, 
Granzow,  Mourawieff,  Merante,  Salvioni,  Fatou,  little 
has  been  written,  and  they  did  not  contribute  in  a  note- 
worthy way  to  the  development  of  the  dance.  Boz- 
zacchi,  who  created  the  principal  role  in  "Coppelia," 
died  prematurely  in  Paris  during  the  siege.  She  prom- 
ised a  decided  talent. 

Coming  to  the  two  stars  who  were  preserving  at  the 
close  of  the  century  the  best  memorials  of  the  dance 
at  the  Paris  Opera,  one  found  the  danse  noble  illus- 
trated by  Mile.  Subra  and  the  danse  de  demi-caractere 
by  Mile.  Mauri.  Born  in  Paris  and  educated  entirely 
there,  Subra  had  what  is  called  "school."  She  made 
her  debut  in  1881  in  the  ballet  of  Thomas's  "Hamlet," 
and  in  1882  took  Bozzacchi's  role  in  "Coppelia."  She 
was  considered  an  unusually  beautiful  ballet  woman, 
and  was  corseted  in  a  neat  and  refined  distinction  of 
grace.  Her  beauty  and  elegance  of  manner  outrivaled 
her  dancing. 

Her  person,  however,  showed  what  a  well-meaning 
yet  awkward  artisan  Nature  sometimes  is.  She  had, 
with  good  height  and  a  pretty  face,  a  large,  squarish, 
handsome  body  with  an  ample  bust.  As  a  result  her 
body,  expressing  neither  litheness  nor  emotion,  was 
plethorically  refractory  to  all  dances.  And  her  limbs 
did  not  belong  to  it.  They  were  trim,  sculptural  and 
full  of  poseful  cadences.  Her  legs,  in  their  daintiness 
and  natty  chasteness,  recalled  those  of  Diana  of  Gabies. 
While  her  body  gave  her  a  fine  presence  and  elevation 
for  the  danse  noble,  her  thin  limbs  destroyed  in  her 
the  possibility  of  realizing  its  perfection. 


114       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Her  grace,  then,  was  that  of  the  limbs  and  not  of 
the  ensemble,  since  her  physique  lacked  symmetry  and 
any  suggestion  of  sylphine  harmony.  But  the  grace 
of  the  legs  was  defective  in  that  it  was  restrained 
rather  than  intuitive  and  open-flung,  for  they  were 
necessarily  conscious  of  the  unnatural  burden  which 
the  well-developed  body  imposed  upon  them.  They 
always  kept  well  under  it  perforce,  instead  of  capri- 
ciously skimming  about  as  if  having  little  to  support. 

By  contrast,  her  lovely  arms  and  hands  were  freely 
and  exquisitely  interlaced  in  her  dance.  One  perhaps 
never  before  noticed  hands — whereon,  as  Verlaine 
would  say,  "a  delicacy  has  left  its  succinct  entasis" — 
representing  and  interpreting  so  much  with  a  grace  so 
impeccable.  Thus  the  elegance  of  Subra  was  more 
statuesque  than  Terpsichorean;  and  her  limbs,  in  their 
plastic  contours  of  motion,  contributed  delectably  to 
the  spectacle  of  a  marmorean  figure  in  movement,  from 
which  any  hint  of  the  wasp-waisted,  air-blown  Pari- 
sienne  was  quite  whisked  away. 

Subra  offered  much  charm  and  much  hopeless  incon- 
gruity. Never  of  the  air,  never  melting  into  music, 
and  conceived  of  no  celerities  nor  supplenesses,  her 
evolutions  and  attitudes  were  confirmed  in  the  habits  of 
verticalness — of  action  up  and  down.  Yet  she  had  a 
good  ballon;  she  was  distinguished,  never  banal  or  sen- 
sational ;  she  performed  with  taste,  with  a  cultured  and 
instinctive  regard  for  esthetic  effect.  Her  pas  sug- 
gested little  worth  noting.  Possessed  of  no  originality, 
she  invented  nothing.  She  executed  correctly  without 
inspiration  or  naivete  the  velocities  which  had  been 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   115 

outlined  for  her.  Her  toilets,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
remarkable  for  their  fascinating  style  and  becoming- 
ness.  And  it  was  with  them,  together  with  her  beauty, 
her  grace  of  Paros  and  her  chaste  decorum,  that  she 
succeeded  as  a  sightly  ministress  in  the  Taglioni  tra- 
dition. 

The  danse  de  demi-caractere  was  personified  at  the 
Paris  Opera  at  the  close  of  the  century  by  Mile.  Rosita 
Mauri,  who  was  the  veritable  queen  of  the  ballet  in 
France  for  that  whole  generation.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Spanish  master  of  ballet,  and  began  her  dex- 
terous career  in  Milan.  Finally  at  La  Scala  there  Gou- 
nod remarked  her.  This  led  to  her  appearance  in  his 
"Polyeucte"  in  Paris  in  1878.  In  1879  ^he  French 
secured  her  permanently.  She  received  nine  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  with  one  month's  leave  of  absence.  She 
created  many  roles. 

Her  form,  in  its  ensemble,  was  much  superior  to 
that  of  Subra.  It  had  harmony  and  was  indeed  quite 
perfect  for  a  danseuse  de  demi-caractere  in  that  epoch. 
Her  body  was  somewhat  slender,  of  easy  contours,  and 
not  refractory  to  the  dance.  Her  grace,  suiting  the 
character  of  her  dance,  was  of  course  unlike  that  of 
Sufbra.  It  was  less  distinguished,  less  refined,  less 
classically  correct.  She  h*ad,  in  opposition,  the  freer 
girth  of  a  torrid  physique  as  well  as  the  spirited  loyal- 
ty and  very  feminine  nature  of  a  high-metaled  Span- 
ish woman.  It  was  that  certain  desinvolture  which 
comes  to  an  athletic  performer — a  large  and  disjointed 
facility  of  limb.  That  is  to  say,  her  characteristic  note 
was  strength.     To  muscular  rapidity  rather  than  to 


Ii6       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

transcendent    elegance    was    ascribable    her    maestria. 

Thus  she  triumphed  not  by  polish  of  action,  beauty 
and  charm  of  toilet,  but  by  her  Spanish  chic,  as  it  were, 
and  above  all  by  her  skill  in  pas.  Her  dance,  signal- 
ized by  its  dexterous  power,  was  of  the  legs.  The  rest 
of  her  body  was  largely  sacrificed  to  them.  Never- 
theless, the  attention,  confined  to  her  lower  limbs,  was 
well  repaid,  for  in  observing  them  during  an  act  of 
ballet  one  might  learn,  for  the  first  time  perhaps,  what 
intelligence,  strength  and  expertness  may  be  columned 
forth  and  flourished  about  by  a  well-trained  pair  of 
legs,  and  might  note  how  capacious  their  scope  for  ex- 
pression. 

And  it  was  with  them  that  the  Mauri  courted  fine 
grace.  Her  feet  were  handled  with  an  unapproachable 
effectiveness  and  ease.  It  was  precisely  with  them  that 
she  gave  vent  to  that  fieriness — that  endiablement — for 
which  she  was  noted,  and  which  was  the  Terpsichorean 
expression  of  her  athletic  vigor  fusing  in  a  hot  tempera- 
ment. The  French  world  had  never  seen  a  star  with 
such  a  competent  pair  of  lower  limbs  as  these. 

Subra  had  the  presence,  elevation  and  ballon  of  the 
danse  noble,  and  Mauri  had  a  very  mobile  parcours* 
and  masterly  pas  on  the  ground.  Her  entrechats  and 
batterie**  were  not  so  lofty  and  hence  naturally  not  so 

*  Parcours  denotes  the  ability  to  cover  all  parts  of  the  stage 
with  a  rapid  effectiveness.  Temps  parcourus  are  varied  evolutions 
performed  while  quickly  traversing  the  scene. 

**  The  batterie  designates  the  repeated  action  of  leaping  in  the 
air,  curving  the  legs  open,  and  crossing  the  feet  several  times  before 
reaching  ground.  The  entrechat  is  a  light  and  brilliant  leap  during 
which  the  dancer  crosses  his  feet  rapidly  and  alights  in  certain 
positions   or   attitudes. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   117 

brilliant  as  those  of  Subra,  yet  they  were  more  skill- 
fully and  ambitiously  performed,  and  therefore  really 
merited  more  praise.  Subra,  with  a  pointed  foot, 
mounted  on  showier  pointes;  but  Mauri,  having  a  foot 
partly  "square"  and  partly  "pointed,"  whirled  truer 
pirouettes  on  the  pointes  than  any  of  her  precursors  or 
companions.  In  fact  she  rarely,  if  ever,  turned  a  pirou- 
ette on  the  instep,  since  a  "square"  foot  supports  sure 
and  easy,  though  not  brilliant,  pirouettes  on  the  pointes. 
The  instep  of  the  danseuse  noble  is  naturally  stronger 
than  that  of  the  danseuse  de  demi-caractere  for  she  has 
to  mount  higher.  a 

Mauri  kept  her  laurels  by  her  imposing,  expert 
energies.  She  was  indefatigable  and  ingenious,  and 
had  the  art  of  fanning  the  spectators  into  enthusiasm 
when  she  flipped  a  cabriole  or  escaladed  a  soubresaut. 
She  did  not  display  the  dry,  fine  scintillations  of  French 
radiance,  nor  the  poetry  and  "school"  of  Subra  (with 
her  grace  of  molding  music  into  gesture),  nor  sylphine 
lightness ;  but  she  knew  how  to  stride  down  the  parallels 
of  some  masterful  waltz  as  it  swayed  back  and  forth 
across  the  levels  of  three  score  of  violin  bows.  She 
had  a  marked  personality,  as  befits  the  demi-caractere, 
burnt  ardor  into  the  boards  by  her  pas,  and  was  thus 
notably  a  danseuse  and  a  genuine  virtuosa. 

A  word  about  male  dancers  may  be  inserted  here. 
Taglioni,  Gardel,  Noblet,  Petipa,  Perrot,  Saint-Leon, 
Merante,  have  been  applauded  in  Paris  since  Vestris, 
yet  their  glory,  as  already  noted,  has  been  eclipsed  by 
that  of  the  danseuses.  The  list  wound  up  worthily  in 
the   1890's  in  the  person  of  Vazquez — "friend  Vaz- 


ii8       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

quez,"  as  he  was  popularly  known  among  the  personnel 
at  the  Opera.*  He  had  been  on  its  boards  from  the 
age  of  ten.  He  became  "first  dancer"  after  appearing 
with  Beaugrand  in  the  Fandango. 

All  that  could  have  been  suggested  to  make  him 
ideal  in  his  art  was  a  little  more  brilliancy  of  batterie 
and  a  little  more  height.  He  had  all  the  rest — grace, 
vigor,  Spanish  suppleness,  a  handsome  form,  the  flavor 
of  a  good-humored  seriousness.  Doubtless  none  of  his 
famous  precursors  equaled  him  in  the  number  of  diffi- 
cult pas  which  he  offered.  The  male  dancer  of  the  time 
of  Vestris  knew  nothing  of  pointe  dancing;  and  if  one 
glances  at  the  illustrations  in  the  book  of  Blasis,  he 
will  observe  that  the  dancer  represented  therein  never 
lifts  the  foot  and  leg  higher  than  the  hip,  showing  that 
the  present  high-foot  evolutions  were  not  then  known 
even  to  male  dancers. 

II — THE  TRANSFORMATIONS  IN  THE  BALLET  FROM 
TAGLIONI  TO  I9OO 

From  the  above  figurines  in  the  realm  of  Terpsi- 
chore, one  observes  that  there  are  four  types  of  the 
ballet  dance.  They  are  the  danse  noble,  as  conceived 
and  detailed  in  an  unrivaled  manner  by  Taglioni,  and 
finally  represented  by  Mile.  Subra;  the  danse  de  demi- 
caractere,  as  first  outlined  by  Fanny  Elssler  and  finally 
interpreted  by  Mile.  Mauri;  the  danse  of  fantaisie  of 
Cerrito;  and,  to  conclude,  there  is  what  may  be  called 

*  To  Vazquez,  the  author  has  been  under  great  obligations  for 
a  generous  amount  of  information  and  for  very  many  interesting 
courtesies    and   cordial    favors. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet    119 

the  danse  de  pantomime,  as  made  notable  by  Rosati. 
The  danse  comlque  disappeared  from  the  boards.  The 
danse  de  fantaisie  is  essentially  a  form  of  the  danse  de 
demi-caractere.  In  the  danse  de  pantomime,  wherein 
the  mimicry  rather  than  the  dancing  takes  the  lead,  the 
Italians  (one  may  almost  say  the  Neapolitans  with 
their  Pulcinella)  have  always  surpassed.  The  panto- 
mime was  in  ancient  times  a  Roman,  not  a  Greek, 
creation,  and  hence  it  seems  to  have  ever  been  pre- 
eminently an  art  of  the  boot-leg  peninsula. 

The  two  great  types  of  the  modern  ballet-dance,  the 
danse  noble  and  the  danse  de  demi-caractere,  corre- 
spond to  the  classic  and  romantic  styles  in  literature. 
It  is  worthy  of  notice  that  just  when  the  Romantic 
school  was  bursting  into  triumph  in  France,  Taglioni 
was  fashioning  in  Paris  the  classic  models  of  ballet 
dancing.  But  she  was  quickly  followed  by  the  ro- 
mantic, music-spun  Elssler  from  Germany. 

The  danseuse  noble  is  occupied  with  molding  formal 
outlines  and  impersonal  contours  into  ideal  motion — 
with  form  rather  than  sentiment  and  color.  The  danse 
noble  is  largely  confined  to  mythological  scenes  where 
nymphs  disport  in  white  moonlights  and  sylphs  glisten 
across  dark  vistas.  Its  utmost  possibilities  seem  to 
have  been  almost  perfectly  realized  by  Taglioni,  so 
that  it  offers  little  scope  for  new  inspirations.  It  has 
given  way  before  the  demi-caractere  in  later  times 
much  as  the  classic  has  given  way  before  the  romantic 
in  France. 

As  an  illustration  of  typical  Greek  dancing — or,  one 
may  say,  of  the  danse  noble  of  the  ancient  Hellenes — 


120       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

there  is  an  account  of  Taglioni  in  Palladio's  Teatro 
Olimpico  at  Vicenza  in  1842.  This  edifice  was  de- 
signed according  to  the  plans  of  ancient  theaters,  and 
Taglioni  was  imitating,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  for 
a  little  party  of  friends,  those  classic  ballerines  known 
as  the  danseuses  de  Pompeii.  The  commentator  says: 
"Taglioni  knew  at  once  how  to  put  herself  in  harmony 
with  the  surroundings.  She  held  up  her  dress  a  little 
with  both  hands.  The  dance  was  as  if  performed  by  a 
statue.  She  turned  no  pirouette;  she  formed  no  ob- 
tuse angle  with  the  legs;  she  did  not  stand  on  one 
toe;  she  did  not  spin  dizzily  around.  She  remained 
nearly  the  whole  time  in  one  spot,  while  her  feet  de- 
claimed lovely,  noble,  ancient  rhythms,  and  her  little 
head  swayed  hither  and  thither.  Had  he  seen  her  then, 
Theodor  Mundt  would  not  have  said:  'Taglioni  dances 
Goethe.'  He  would  have  exclaimed:  'Taglioni  dances 
Sappho,  Anacreon  and  Catullus!'  " 

The  danse  de  demi-caractere  is  romantic  and  ex- 
pansive because  it  skirts  about  in  the  exotic,  in  the  senti- 
mental, in  the  individualistic,  in  the  sensational. 
National,  provincial  and  village  dances,  as  well  as 
dances  of  sailors,  of  draperies,  of  colors,  enter  under  its 
name.  It  scours  all  lands  and  pries  into  all  vocations 
for  new  pas  and  divertissements.  It  renews  itself  in 
the  themes  of  such  dancers  of  fantasy  as  was  Carmen- 
cita,  and  in  such  caprices  as  was  Loie  Fuller's  dance  of 
colored  robes.  Thus  it  has  variety,  and  is  susceptible 
of  progress  in  its  continual  transformations.  It  is  more 
terra-a-terre  than  the  elevated,  aerial  danse  noble. 

To  appreciate  the  great  characteristic  of  the  ballet 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   121 

dance  in  modern  times,  one  only  needs  to  compare  it  for 
a  moment  with  the  Greek  art.  We  do  not  need  to  read 
Lessing,  Flaxman,  Charles  Blanc  and  other  authorities 
on  ancient  sculpture  and  on  the  Greek  notion  of  Terp- 
sichorean  cadence  to  learn  that  the  conception  of  the 
dance  among  the  Greeks  developed  from  the  idea  of 
repose  and  pose.  The  generous  length  of  their  draper- 
ies and  the  comparative  primitiveness  and  simplicity  of 
their  music  at  once  prove  this.  A  statuesque  race,  they 
made  the  body  the  center  of  notice  in  dancing.  The 
lirnjbs  served  only  to  accommodate,  to  accentuate,  to  ex- 
tend, its  harmonies.  The  symmetry  of  the  body  did  not 
suffer  from  the  distracting  effect  of  vigorously  inde- 
pendent gesticulations  of  arms  and  legs,  to  say  nothing 
of  their  violencies  and  excesses  of  action.  Their  mo- 
tions were  reposefully  downward  instead  of  energetic- 
ally up  and  outward,  so  that  they  remained  distinctly 
the  expression  of  the  body  and  within  its  range. 

Under  these  conditions,  drapery  became  a  true  and 
intimate  companion  of  the  gestures  of  the  dancer,  and 
caressed  the  vision  of  the  spectator  by  its  participation 
in  the  sports  of  the  body  and  limbs — by  its  folds,  con- 
volutions and  cascades.  Terpsichore  herself  is  rep- 
resented as  copiously  enfolded  in  draperies  which  fall 
amply  on  the  ground. 

The  starting  point  for  Christian  art,  to  speak  In  an 
imperfect  way,  was  movement  rather  than  repose. 
The  new  religion  meant  struggle,  agitation.  Vigorous 
celerity  may  be  said  to  characterize  things  nervously 
modern  fr.om  things  reposefully  Greek,  and  thus  be- 
comes the  play  which  distinguishes  the  modern  from 


122       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

the  ancient  Terpsichorean  art.  Swiftness,  strength, 
airiness,  and  complicated  and  adroit  action  dispute  for 
the  favor  of  the  modern  public.  The  attention  Is  di- 
rected to  the  limbs,  not  the  body.  These  traits,  as 
we  have  seen,  were  developed  only  by  the  male  dancer 
before  TagllonI  appeared.  She  claimed  them  for  her 
sex,  and  added  to  them  a  classic  flavor  of  inspiration 
and  poetry. 

In  observing  the  evolution  of  the  ballet-dance  since 
her  day,  the  attention  remains  confined  to  the  danseuse. 
The  male  dancer  may  be  dropped  from  notice.  The 
ballerlne  has  gradually  improved  In  the  matter  of  dif- 
ficult pas  and  tours  de  force,  and  skilled  celerity  has 
become  more  and  more  emphasized.  Of  course  Ta- 
gllonI, and  with  reason,  is  always  despairingly  cited 
as  a  model  of  perfection  for  her  elevation  and  ballon; 
but  her  celerity,  being  sylphlike,  had  little  of  that  force 
and  energy  (to  us  so  familiar)  which  come  of  muscled 
strength.  She  distinguished  herself  from  her  precur- 
sors by  using  the  legs  more  liberally  and  deftly.  It  is 
precisely  because  she  employed  freely  and  harmoniously 
all  parts  of  her  person  that  her  dance  will  ever  remain 
ideal.  Before  her  day,  the  ballerines  sacrificed  the 
legs  to  the  upper  half  of  the  body,  and  since  her  time 
they  have  sacrificed  the  upper  half,  and  the  ensemble 
of  the  person,  to  the  lower  half. 

The  Terpsichorean  action  In  the  last  sixty  years  of 
the  century  had  by  degrees  descended  exclusively  to  the 
lower  limbs,  and  had  become  more  athletic  and  virile. 
This  Is  an  Indication  of  the  sway  which  the  romantic 
danse   de   demi-caractere   had  borne   over  the   classic 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   123 

danse  noble  in  the  decades  since  Taglioni.  The  neglect 
of  the  face,  arms  and  body  had  resulted  in,  or  was  the 
result  of,  the  marked  decadence  of  the  pantomime. 
The  pantomime  was  insignificant  at  the  Paris  Opera 
toward  1900.  None  of  the  ballerines  there  danced 
very  well  above  the  hips  or  knew  how  to  express  her- 
self adequately  with  the  upper  parts  of  the  person. 
Mile.  Laus  alone  had  something  of  the  gift  of  mimicry. 

The  disuse  of  the  upper  half  of  the  person  by  the 
danseuses  in  that  epoch  accounts,  then,  for  the  fact  that 
the  dance  had  lost  so  much  of  Its  poetic  aeriality  as  well 
as  so  much  of  its  pantomimic  effectiveness.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  the  deft  manipulations  of  the  leg  and 
foot,  the  ballerines  of  1900  outrivaled  the  star  of 
forty  and  sixty  years  before.  The  reason  for  this  is 
that  they  relinquished  almost  everything  to  this  end. 
Mile.  Mauri  traversed  regions  of  the  terre-a-terre  do- 
mains that  were  little  explored  by  Taglioni  and  Elssler, 
and  indulged  in  complications  of  steps  of  which  they 
doubtless  did  not  dream. 

Pirouettes  on  the  points  of  the  toes,  hardly  known  to 
Taglioni,  had  become  in  recent  times  the  piece  de 
resistance  of  every  ballerine  who  slipped  a  glissade  or 
spread  an  echappe,  no  matter  if  her  renown  was  as 
small  as  her  skirt.  Adice  seemed  to  be  complaining 
In  1859  that  no  one  longer  dared  attack  a  double  tour 
of  pirouettes  on  the  Instep.  What  would  he  say  if  he 
saw  the  present  generation  reveling  prodigally  in  them 
and  in  the  much  more  difficult  pirouettes  on  the 
pointes?  Pointe  dancing,  the  favorite  fin  de  slecle 
variety,  was  evidence  that  the  dance  had  to  some  ex- 


124       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

tent  descended  even  from  the  legs  to  the  feet,  since 
pointes  test  and  display  nothing  but  the  glittering  skill 
and  firmness  of  instep  and  toe. 

The  upshot  of  all  this  is  that,  as  indicated  above, 
the  ballet  danseuse  toward  1900  presented  no  inspired 
ensemble  and  no  harmonies  of  action  as  compared  with 
her  great  predecessors,  because  she  only  half  observed 
the  rule:  "One  should  dance  with  the  legs,  and  ex- 
press sentiments  with  the  rest  of  the  person."  The 
ballerine  of  eighty  years  before  filled  the  mind's  eye, 
after  an  evening  of  ballet,  with  the  vision  of  a  moonlit 
fairy,  or  of  a  graceful  woman  quivering  under  the  am- 
orous lash  of  impulsive  music.  It  was  from  first  to 
last  an  illusion  born  of  an  artistic  oneness  of  concep- 
tion meant  to  captivate  by  its  air-woven,  or  warm- 
bodied,  idealities. 

The  ballet  danseuse  of  the  latter  day  was  apt  to 
come  out  somewhat  prosaically  like  a  gymnast,  as  if  she 
meant  to  say:  "I  am  going  to  interpret  some  music  by 
tours  de  force  with  my  legs."  She  stood  erect  at  one 
corner  of  the  stage,  enchained  with  a  wonderfully  ex- 
pert energy  her  adages  and  pointes,  wound  up  brusque- 
ly over  in  the  diagonal  corner,  bowed,  and  walked  away 
with  no  elegance  of  retreating,  with  no  charm  of  dis- 
solving view.  It  was  an  athletic  performance,  a  feat  of 
putting  music  into  muscle,  rather  than  a  dream  of 
ethereal  grace.  This  style  of  the  Romantic  dance,  in 
which  something  like  acrobatism  was  encountered,  cor- 
responds in  a  measure  to  that  decadent  phase  of  the 
French  Romantic  school  of  poetry  wherein  rhymsters, 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   125 

led  by  Victor  Hugo  himself  in  so  many  of  his  pages, 
sought  to  astonish  by  wonderful  feats  in  verse. 

As  a  result  of  the  fact  that  the  dance  had  evolved 
so  noticeably  into  an  art  for  the  legs  and  feet,  the  pas 
became  more  varied,  elaborate  and  perfect  than  ever. 
A  word  about  them  is  essential  to  the  present  theme. 
The  two  fundamental  actions  of  the  dancer  are  to  bend 
the  knees  and  raise  up  to  the  erect  posture — se  plier 
et  se  relever.  His  first  aim  is  to  become  bien  place — 
to  become  solidly  seated  in  his  attitudes  and  move- 
ments: to  display  an  unwavering  equilibrium. 

The  first  five  positions,  in  one  of  which  the  per- 
former ordinarily  stands  when  he  begins  a  pas,  form 
the  scale,  as  it  were,  of  the  dance.  From  these  ele- 
mentary attitudes  develop  all  the  motions  of  the  limbs 
outward  and  upward,  and  in  two  planes — either  along 
the  ground  or  in  the  air.  The  movements  on  the 
ground  (a  terre)  have  in  nearly  every  instance  their 
duplicate  in  the  air  (en  I'air),  or  temps  sautes  (leaped) 
— as  degages-a-terre,  degages  en  I'air;  ronds-de-jambe- 
a-terre  and  en  I'air.  But  en  I'air  in  this  part  of  the 
ritual  virtually  means  not  higher  than  the  ankle  or 
knee  (demi-hauteur),  though  the  performer  may 
transport  these  actions  higher  in  the  air  if  he  wishes. 
The  training  of  the  limbs  for  supple  strength  and 
gracefulness  consists  of  "detaching"  them  from  the 
body.  This  is  accomplished  by  the  exercises  of  the 
degages,  ronds-de-jambe,  plies,  the  first  lessons  in 
pointes,  and  all  kinds  of  battements. 

After  these  come  the  adages  which  constitute  the 


126       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

principal  part  of  the  dance.  They  are  sometimes  called 
developpes  because  they  are,  one  may  say,  develop- 
ments from  the  first  five  positions,  and  also  from  all 
the  elementary  motions  which  admit  of  being  trans- 
posed into  the  air.  The  adages  develop  either  a  la 
seconde  position  (straight  out  at  the  side)  or  a  la 
quatrieme  devant  (straight  out  in  front),  or  a  la  qua- 
trieme  derriere  (straight  out  behind).  The  adages  are 
multiple  and  embrace,  If  need  be,  the  outermost  and 
uppermost  reaches  of  the  limbs. 

Nevertheless  the  adages  are  largely  attitudes,  for 
here  the  arms  come  into  full  play  and  combine  with 
the  whole  person  In  harmonious  actions  and  postures, 
whence  arise  all  the  poses,  developpes  ouverts  and 
croises,  arabesques,  and,  Indeed,  pirouettes.  There 
are  Innumerable  pirouettes. 

The  above  movements  form  the  framework  of  the 
dance.  They  are  followed  by  various  little  series  of 
tours  or  pas  which,  on  the  whole,  really  leave  the  dis- 
tinct domain  of  exercises,  express  bits  of  sentiments 
and  moods,  and  Interpret  phrases  of  music.  The  most 
usual  of  these  pas  are  glissades,  echappes,  coupes, 
jettes,  brises,  assembles,  fouettes,  pas  de  bourree,  cab- 
rloles,  soubresauts,  entrechats. 

There  are  entrechats-3,  -4,  -5,  -6,  -8.  Entrechats-8 
(separating  the  feet  four  times  and  bringing  them  to- 
gether as  many  times  while  leaping  from  one  of  the 
first  five  positions)  are  quite  a  rare  feat.  Blasis,  writ- 
ing in  1830,  said  that  entrechats  had  been  performed 
as  high  as  14.  Vazquez  made  them  at  14  in  private. 
Entrechats-6  are  the  variety  usually  produced  on  the 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   127 

stage,  being  less  difficult  and  at  the  same  time  more 
brilliant  than  entrechats-8. 

All  the  pas  now  mentioned  constitute  the  whole  tech- 
nic — the  whole  mechanism — of  the  dance,  and  there- 
fore they  belong  as  well  to  the  danse  de  demi-caractere 
as  to  the  danse  noble.  Pirouettes  on  the  pointes  are  the 
most  modern  of  the  regular  pas.  It  appears  that  the 
first  pirouette  of  any  sort  ever  seen  in  Paris  was  whirled 
in  1766,  and  was  imported  from  Stuttgart.  It  was 
simply  a  pirouette  on  the  flat  of  the  foot.  A  dancer 
may  turn  eight  pirouettes  on  the  instep,  although  only 
the  first  four  can  be  turned  well.  He  may  turn  three 
pirouettes  on  the  pointes,  yet  only  the  first  two  can  be 
achieved  satisfactorily. 

Pointes  are  the  most  steely  and  glittering  of  pas,  but 
the  general  supposition  that  they  are  the  most  difficult 
is  erroneous.  More  trying  on  the  many  resources  of 
the  danseuse  are  the  temps  parcourus  when  skillfully 
varied  in  rapid  successions  of  modest,  unanticipated 
tours,  and  also  the  batterie  when  beaten  brilliantly  back 
and  forth  across  the  stage,  and  also  the  ballon  when 
floated  swiftly  and  loftily  hither  and  thither.  In  the 
temps  parcourus,  at  the  same  time,  there  is  much  less 
visible  athleticism  and  more  of  the  spontaneous  poetry 
of  motion  than  in  the  pointe.  They  give  the  most  scope 
to  the  possibilities  of  the  gracefully  unexpected;  for 
it  is  the  pleasure  of  agreeable  surprise  which  consti- 
tutes the  great  charm  in  all  art. 

A  danseuse  is  not  recognized  as  a  danseuse  noble 
because  of  certain  pas,  but  because  she  has  a  dominat- 
ing presence,  elevation,  and  a  high  and  light  ballon. 


128        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Either  regal  majesty  of  bearing  or  airy  elevation  of 
movement  must  characterize  her.  The  ballon  of  Ta- 
glioni  will  never  be  equaled,  at  least  in  reputation. 

A  danseuse  de  demi-caractere,  in  her  turn,  is  not 
recognized  as  such  by  certain  pas,  but  because  she  lacks 
the  traits  of  appearance,  and  the  aerialty,  of  the  dan- 
seuse noble.  She  is  always  shorter  than  the  latter  and 
less  distinguished  in  presence;  yet  she  is  warmer,  more 
individualistic,  and  has  entrain.  Her  parcours  depends 
on  her  pliable  energies  and  is  thus  distinguished  from 
that  of  the  longer  limbed,  lofty  danseuse  noble.  Also 
her  batterie  must  have  a  fiery  force  to  hold  its  own 
with  the  more  elevated  batterie  of  her  classic  rival. 

To  lower  the  pointes  well — to  alight  on  the  toe  and 
then  on  the  heel,  instead  of  on  the  flat  foot — is  neces- 
sary in  a  good  batterie.  The  dancer  whose  lower  limbs 
are  en  dehors  (knees  turned  out)  is  capable  of  the  most 
brilliant  batterie,  for  his  legs  cross  at  the  ankles  instead 
of  higher  up,  form  a  larger  oval  opening,  and  thus, 
letting  the  day  penetrate  fully  between,  make  the  most 
of  the  light  and  shade  effects,  or  what  is  called  the 
chiaroscuro  of  the  dance. 

Of  course  it  is  quite  true  that  the  danse  de  demi- 
caractere  claims  properly  and  solely  all  character  pas, 
and  also  all  the  national  dances  such  as  the  Italian 
tarantella — the  most  rapid  of  dances — and  the  Four- 
lane  of  the  Venetian  gondoliers;  the  Spanish  bolero  and 
cachucha,  and  the  famous  fandango — the  swiftest  and 
one  of  the  oldest  of  the  Spanish  movements;  the  Polish 
cracovienne,  the  tyrolienne,  la  Russe,  and  so  on.  Yet 
a  danseuse  noble,  in  the  last  generation,  was  apt  to 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   129 

illustrate  these  character  features,  since  the  distinction 
between  noble  and  caractere  was  not  then  so  much  re- 
spected as  formerly.  Adice  was  scolding  in  1859  ^^' 
cause  the  genres  had  become  interlaced,  and  exclaimed: 
"One  great  reason  why  Taglioni  succeeded  so  well  was, 
not  that  she  was  better  formed  or  that  her  pas  were 
inimitable,  but  that  she  adopted  the  danse  noble  and 
kept  to  it!" 

Any  chapter  on  pas  closes  with  a  long  list  of  them 
representing  the  highest  artistic  possibilities  of  the 
dance  as  a  difficult  combination  of  grace  and  vigor,  and 
as  an  interpretation  of  melody.  An  opera-ballet  and 
usually  a  grand  opera  have  one  or  more  celebrated  pas. 
They  are  an  ambitious  linking  together  of  steps  and 
poses  which  express  a  strain  of  music  in  the  full  variety 
of  its  meaning.  There  are,  for  instance,  the  pas  de 
tyrolienne  in  "William  Tell,"  the  pas  dc  fascination  in 
"Robert  le  Diable,"  the  pas  des  abeilles  in  "la  Juive." 

Indeed,  the  Meyerbeer  opera,  which  came  into  glory 
in  Taglioni's  day,  is  notable  for  its  grand  scenes  of 
ballet  and,  consequently,  its  pas.  Among  such  subse- 
quent conceptions  in  France  are  the  pas  de  sabotiere  and 
the  masterly  Breton  Gigue  in  "la  Korrigane,"  preceded 
in  "Coppelia"  by  the  pas  de  la  poupee  which  has  the 
loveliest  fame  of  all  the  pas  which  have  been  created 
In  Paris  in  later  times. 

Such  enchainments  of  action  are  conceived  to  de- 
lineate gayety,  passion,  sorrow,  and  even  death  as  illus- 
trated in  the  scene  of  death  in  "la  Source,"  where,  as 
has  been  said,  the  spectator  is  scarcely  able  to  retain 
his  tears.     Were  one  a  Symbolist,  he  would  perhaps 


130       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

hold  that  pas  represent  colors,  and  that,  character- 
istically, the  pas  of  Mile.  Mauri  were  red  and  those  of 
Mile.  Subra,  pale  green  and  peach.  Paul  Renouard, 
taking  the  theater  lights  into  view,  has  executed  some 
designs  in  which  he  rendered  a  pirouette  croisee  by 
amethyst  and  flesh  tint,  a  joyous  leap  in  the  air  by  yel- 
low and  mauve,  an  arabesque  ouverte  by  faint  green 
and  lilac.  Thus  one  observes  how  descriptive  taste  and 
artistic  refinement  enter  into  the  realm  of  the  pas,  and 
how  varied  are  the  possibilities  of  the  ballet  dance. 

In  the  evolution,  since  the  epoch  of  Taglioni,  of  the 
Terpsichorean  art  into  the  lower  limbs,  they  became 
latterly  the  protruding  means  of  developing  its  esthetic 
features.  The  decadent  pantomime,  losing  its  simpler 
ideality  and  poetry,  had  more  or  less  disappeared,  as 
we  have  noted,  from  the  upper  half  and  the  ensemble 
of  the  person  into  the  skillful  feats  and  complicated 
interpretations  of  the  lower  half. 

This  leads  up  to  the  question  of  grace.  The  word 
grace  generally  refers  to  charm  of  motion,  or  of  motion 
briefly  arrested  in  poses,  not  to  mere  physical  symmetry 
or  that  beauty  of  outline  and  feature  which  predom- 
inates, and  constitutes  the  attraction,  in  the  usual  "beau- 
tiful woman."  It  is  apparent  that  this  is  the  meaning 
proper  to  the  art  of  the  dance.  Grace  of  motion  and 
grace  of  motion  checked  momentarily  in  its  flights, 
rather  than  elegance  of  form  or  perfection  of  limb, 
distinguish  the  dance  from  the  plastic  and  static  world 
of  sculpture.  The  thought  in  the  one  is  on  movement, 
In  the  other  on  repose. 

Now  there  appears  to  be  a  grace  which  belongs  to 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   131 

the  ordinary  actions  of  life,  to  the  everyday  world  of 
the  home,  the  salon,  the  streets;  and  there  is  another 
species  of  grace,  the  Terpsichorean  type,  which  sug- 
gests mythological  or  romantic  characters  and  trans- 
lates ballet  music,  and  which  a  danseuse  must  manifest 
in  order  to  triumph.  In  the  grace  of  common  actions — 
in  the  salon  grace,  we  may  say — the  French,  by  uni- 
versal consent,  surpass;  yet  they  are  not  the  most  ideal 
dancers  either  in  ballet  or  ballroom.  Their  grace — in 
a  measure  circumscribed  and  saccadee,  and  wherein  the 
bony  framework  of  the  body  is  in  evidence  as  is  natural 
to  a  Northern  race — does  not  expand  and  lend  itself 
with  a  whole-souled  irresistibleness  to  the  passion  of 
music.  The  great  dancers  of  both  sexes  in  France  have 
come,  in  nearly  every  instance,  from  the  supple,  free- 
limbed,  unossified  south. 

This  salon  grace,  then,  does  not  appear  to  be  a 
requisite  for  ballet  dancing.  Taglioni  is  said  to  have 
displayed  little  of  it  in  private  life.  The  dance  is  con- 
cerned only  with  Terpsichorean  elegance;  and  beauty, 
too,  should  give  way  before  it,  for  the  most  exquisite 
grace  is  usually,  or  at  least  very  frequently,  found  in 
persons  who  are  physically  unprepossessing.  Herein 
Nature  seems  disposed  to  follow  the  law  of  compensa- 
tion. The  epoch-making  ballerines  have  by  no  means 
been  very  beautiful  women.  Indeed  it  is  claimed  that 
the  dance  reacts  against  the  desire  for  beauty,  because 
ballet  dancing,  while  developing  elegance  of  movement, 
somewhat  destroys  the  symmetry  of  face  and  bust,  since 
it  tends  to  drag  downward  the  upper  half  of  the  person. 

Of  course  agreeable  features  and  symmetrical  out- 


132        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

lines  of  body  and  limb  are  necessary  to  a  certain  degree 
in  a  bayadere,  and  perfection  is  reached  when  perfect 
form  is  wedded  to  perfect  grace;  but  Terpsichor.e 
means  dancing  first  and  comeliness  afterward.  Ballet 
music  is  to  be  rendered  by  motion,  not  by  beauty. 
Hence  the  dance  becomes  decadent  as  soon  as  beauty  is 
made  to  go  before  grace.  Many  a  veritable  sylph  has 
been  obliged  to  retire  from  the  stage  because  she  pos- 
sessed erratic  lineaments;  still  one  cares  relatively  little 
whether  a  singer  has  an  exaggerated  nose  or  mouth 
provided  he  is  gifted  with  a  rare  voice.  Likewise,  regu- 
larity of  feature  should  not  be  exacted  in  a  woman  who 
has  a  divine  grace  of  dance. 

The  fact  that  there  are  always  many  danseuses  on 
the  stage  who  have  little  grace  may  be  explained,  in 
part  at  least.  A  danseuse  should  begin  training  about 
the  age  of  eight.  Very  crude  of  action  are  the  eight- 
year-old  girls  of  the  common  people,  for  it  is  of  the 
common  classes  that  most  ballerines  come.  It  appears 
impossible  to  foretell  whether  a  tiny  maid  may  turn 
into  a  graceful  danseuse.  Herein  the  art  of  the  dance 
is  held  to  be  unlike  that  of  singing.  The  professor  of 
song  knows  that  his  young  pupil  has  an  ear  for  music 
and  at  least  something  of  a  voice.  But  the  girl  who 
wishes  to  attempt  the  dance  may  present  no  trace  what- 
ever of  elegance,  and  eventually  be  able  to  transform 
herself  at  pleasure  into  an  idyl  of  lovely  motion;  or 
she  may  have  grace  at  first  and  yet  develop  after  a 
year's  training  into  nothing  save  inelegance. 

It  results  that  she  is  accepted  on  presentation  as  a 
pupil  if  she  has  good  health  and  good  proportions. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   133 

Thus  many  danseuses,  to  whom  grace  has  been  rather 
severely  denied,  become  sujets,  because  they  have  toiled 
faithfully  and  are  not  uncomely  The  case  of  Leontine 
Beaugrand  is  a  favorable  example  of  the  discriminating 
taste  of  the  Parisians.  She  was  adored  by  them  for 
her  elegance  of  motion  and  consummate  knowledge  of 
the  dance,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  quite  small 
and  had  a  very  prominent  nose. 

One  would  find  it  difficult  to  prove  that  beauty  is 
to-day  a  greater  obstacle  in  the  path  of  Terpsichorean 
grace  than  in  the  year  1830;  but  it  is  obviously  true 
that  the  supremacy  of  grace  in  ballet  dancing  suffered 
somewhat  from  the  fact  that  the  modern  art  became 
comparatively  one  of  athletic  tours  de  force  with  the 
legs.  The  French  of  the  later  epoch  probably  craved, 
more  than  their  grandfathers,  displays  of  nervous  en- 
ergy and  vigorous  rapidity;  and  grace  was  therefore  of 
rather  less  consideration  than  formerly.  A  dancer 
does  not,  can  not,  give  such  heed  to  elegance  of  move- 
ment when  executing  a  feat  that  would  test  the  powers 
of  a  professional  gymnast,  as  when  performing  simple 
and  slow  evolutions. 

It  can  be  very  well  claimed  that  there  was  as  much 
grace  presented  in  the  ballet  in  1900  as  ever,  but  that 
it  was  of  a  different  sort  and  expressed  in  a  different 
manner.  One  may  urge  that  it  was  grace  of  caractere 
rather  than  of  the  noble  and  classic  type,  and  was  less 
supremely  apparent  to  the  casual  observer  because  it 
was  more  technical  and  complicated  and  subject  to  more 
difficult  conditions.  It  is  nevertheless  certain,  as  will 
be  seen  farther  on,  that,  if  there  were  not  an  actual 


134        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

decadence  in  grace,  the  ballet,  in  the  present  epoch  hav- 
ing improved  in  other  ways,  depended  less  for  success 
on  mere  elegance  of  action  than  ever  before. 

The  great  crucial  test  for  a  dancer  is  his  posture 
when  in  the  air  and  not  when  he  is  on  the  ground,  for 
most  dancers  nowadays  move  very  well  on  the  ground. 
But  rare  indeed  is  the  performer  who  en  I'air  adopts 
the  proper  attitude  and  grace  of  pose. 

Another  crucial  test  for  a  dancer  is  his  profile.  How- 
ever graceful  and  skilled  his  dancing  when  viewed  from 
the  front,  his  profile  is  apt  to  prove  an  awkward  and 
unpleasant  spectacle.  A  ballet  seen  in  action  from  the 
side  is  nearly  always  an  ungainly  sight,  even  if  it  pre- 
sent a  charming  appearance  when  facing  the  public. 
A  dancer  should  be  graceful  when  observed  from  any 
direction.  It  is  in  the  matter  of  profile  and  attitude  in 
air  that  the  French  professional,  although  he  may  dance 
acceptably  in  front  and  a  terre,  is  almost  sure  to  be  in- 
ferior to  an  Italian  or  a  Spaniard,  because  he  is  of  a 
harder  framework. 

A  performer  like  Vazquez,  a  Spaniard,  was  almost 
as  agreeable  when  seen  in  profile,  or  in  air,  as  in  front, 
since  he  offered  nothing  but  soft  curves  and  mellow 
poses.  The  danseuse  of  1900  was  sadly  neglectful  of 
her  movements  and  attitudes  on  the  stage  when  not 
dancing,  because  she  detailed  pas  rather  than  embodied 
roles.  Even  if  one  only  dances  pas,  she  should  stand, 
walk  and  listen  gracefully  instead  of  lounging  about 
and  holding  herself  together  in  a  prosaic  or  banal 
manner. 

It  may  be  noted,  in  passing,  that  the  spectator,  who 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  135 

wishes  to  enjoy  the  best  effects  of  the  ensemble  of  a 
ballet  should  be  in  an  upper  box  facing  the  stage;  but 
if  he  would  observe  the  pas  and  the  skill  of  the  indi- 
vidual dancer,  he  should  be  on  a  level  with  the  per- 
former's eyes,  or  a  little  above.  When  on  a  level  lower 
than  the  dancer,  all  the  possible  elegance  of  the  art  is 
lost.  In  the  Grand  Opera  at  Paris,  the  last  row  of  the 
parterre  is  the  best  place  for  the  savant  on  questions  of 
the  dance. 

One  thing  that  the  Greeks  understood  better  than 
modern  people,  perhaps,  is  the  fact  that  the  light  should 
come  from  above,  instead  of  from  below  as  on  modern 
stages.  Of  course  the  Greeks  had  only  to  deal  with 
daylight,  while  latter-day  masters  of  choregraphy  have 
had  to  deal  with  night  and  lights.  But  every  one  knows 
how  light  thrown  from  above  beautifies,  and  how  unat- 
tractive it  will  render  a  handsome  face  when  thrown 
from  below.  So,  too,  if  one  looks  at  a  face  from  above, 
it  always  appears  beautiful;  if  one  looks  at  it  from  be- 
low, it  appears  homely.  This  applies  as  well  to  the 
human  form.  A  danseuse  is  at  the  greatest  disad- 
vantage if  the  spectators  are  a  little  below  the  level  of 
her  eyes.  The  arm  does  not  seem  to  move  gracefully 
when  a  person  is  looking  up  at  it,  because  its  least  ex- 
pressive part  is  seen  in  a  small  and  awkward  range  of 
movement. 

The  question  of  grace,  which  was  being  discussed 
above,  has  a  complement  in  that  of  costume.  The 
ballet  costume  is  a  result,  not  a  cause.  Taglioni's  toilet 
clasped  her  high  in  the  waist  and  descended  below  the 
knees  in  a  line  that  departed  modestly  from  the  body. 


136       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

It  was  Irreproachably  proper,  like  her  dance,  being 
essentially  the  traditional  garment  of  women.  Still,  as 
already  noted,  it  was  shorter  and  more  convex  than  that 
of  her  less  decorous  precursors  whom  Vestris  taught. 

As  the  dance  has  gradually  lowered  into  the  legs, 
the  costume  of  necessity  has  become  shorter,  more 
stiffly  convex  and  stands  farther  away  from  the  body, 
in  order  not  to  interfere  with  the  action  of  the  lower 
limbs.  The  ballet  skirts  are  shorter  and  more  convexly 
horizontal  than  ever  because  the  legs  are  employed 
with  more  expert  vigor.  While  the  costume  has  as- 
cended from  below,  it  has  at  the  same  time  descended 
on  the  waist,  so  that  it  covers  much  less  of  the  person 
than  formerly. 

The  typical  convex  ballet  skirt  of  the  later  time  is 
in  no  sense  ideal.  It  is  wholly  without  the  pale  of  the 
graceful  and  the  picturesque.  An  ideal  costume  should 
follow  the  lines  of  the  body,  hide  its  shortcomings, 
blend  its  parts,  soften  its  effects,  and  appear  as  if 
natural  to  the  wearer.  The  unloveliness  of  the  con- 
temporary ballet  toilet  as  a  thing  of  artistic  meaning 
and  beauty  is  only  accentuated  when  clapped  around  the 
waist  like  an  inverted  soup-tureen,  and  thus  is  made  to 
destroy  the  outlines  of  the  wearer's  form.  For  it  cuts 
the  body  hopelessly  into  two  parts,  each  possessing 
two  members,  and  gives  the  limbs  the  appearance  of 
dangling  and  scurrying  about  as  if  the  action  of  the 
arms  had  as  little  relation  as  possible  to  that  of  the 
legs.  It  emphasizes  defects,  which  must  be  industri- 
ously corrected  by  "splicing,"  and  induces  the  ballerine 
to  be  careless  of  her  walk  and  bearing  when  not  danc- 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   137 

ing.  It  is  because  the  danseur  wears  a  costume  which 
discloses  distinctly  the  whole  contour  of  the  person 
that  he  carries  himself,  as  has  been  remarked,  much 
better  on  the  stage,  when  not  performing,  than  the 
danseuse. 

The  masculine  attire  is  more  favorable  for  this  pur- 
pose than  even  the  Taglioni  dress,  since  the  latter  garb 
hid  so  much  of  the  outline  of  the  body.  The  present 
convex  skirts  are  especially  destructive  of  the  effects 
of  the  danse  noble.  They  tend  to  dissipate  its  nobility 
and  weigh  down  on  its  loftiness  and  aeriality,  because 
they  are  neither,  on  the  one  hand,  queenly  nor,  on  the 
other,  vertical  and  soaringly  balloon-like. 

And  so  the  old-time,  the  old-fashioned,  lover  of  Ta- 
glioni's  style  would  say:  "One  excess  results  from  an- 
other. Your  excess  of  dancing  in  the  legs  has  devel- 
oped an  outrage  in  the  way  of  a  costume."  No  other 
toilet  seems  possible  so  long  as  the  dance  remains 
largely  one  of  the  lower  limbs,  and  so  long  as  the  spec- 
tator demands  the  skirt  even  in  the  reminiscent  and 
abortive  form  of  the  present  jupe  de  tulle.  The  dif- 
ficulty arises  from  trying  to  adjust  the  notion  of  the 
skirt  to  the  idea  of  vigorous  action  for  the  legs. 

Yet  the  members  of  the  ballet  as  well  as  the  public 
seem  unwilling  to  part  with  this  garment.  Few  sug- 
gestions, however  lovely,  of  terraces  and  cascades  of 
ribbons  and  roses  as  a  substitute  around  the  waist  and 
hips  for  the  jupe,  evoke  aught  but  exclamations  of 
terror  from  the  ballet  danseuse,  for  she  shuns  travesty 
and  the  thought  of  being  divorced  from  any  hint  of  the 
petticoat.     Greek  art  offers  no  solution  of  the  problem. 


138        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

since  the  Greeks  did  not  deal  with  expert  motions  in 
the  legs.  Even  the  meager  garb  of  Diana  of  Ver- 
sailles would  not  serve,  because  its  alternate  flappings, 
cleavings,  to  the  body  lines  would  annoy  the  danseuse 
and  prove  homely.  It  is  only  meant  for  walking  and 
running  as  befits  the  goddess  of  the  chase. 

Nothing  can  apparently  be  done  but  to  make  the 
latter  day  inartistic  garment  as  delectable  a  sight  as 
may  be;  and  indeed  never  before  recent  times  have 
there  been  expended  and  displayed  on  the  toilet  of 
the  ballerine  so  much  money  and  taste  and  such  vari- 
eties of  material  and  color.  The  result  is  not  wholly 
without  success  as  was  seen  sometimes  in  the  attires  of 
Mile.  Subra,  and  occasionally  in  certain  caprices  of 
the  ballet  costume.  The  convex  skirt  has,  it  is  true, 
some  redeeming  points.  It  traces  the  waist  firmly 
and  daintily,  thereby  giving  more  prominence  to  the 
bust  and  more  daintiness  to  the  whole  person.  It  hides 
the  graceless  bulge  at  the  hips,  and  has  the  practical 
effect  of  throwing  the  lower  limbs  boldly  into  relief  as 
is  proper  in  a  dance  of  the  legs. 

Furthermore,  one  errs  in  fancying  that  its  shortness 
and  convex  horizontalness  are  ascribable  to  a  liking, 
often  gratuitously  said  to  be  greater  now  than  in  the 
year  1830,  for  equivocal  display.  They  are  due  to  the 
necessity  of  freer  leg  action;  and  the  expert  vigorous- 
ness  of  motion  tends  to  correct  the  hint  of  impropriety 
because,  as  in  the  case  of  the  female  acrobats  in  tights, 
the  attention  is  occupied  with  the  dexterity  and  variety 
of  the  evolutions  and  feats.    Still  the  fact  must  not  be 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet    139 

ignored  that  this  costume  can  more  naturally  be  made 
to  contribute  to  any  unseemly  motives  of  brazen-bodied 
danseuses  than  the  Taglioni  dress  which,  while  not 
artistically  beautiful,  suggested  a  virgin  pudency  quite 
puritanic. 

There  is  one  variety  of  the  skirt  of  to-day  which 
should  be  discountenanced.  It  is  the  one  which  reaches 
some  three  feet  away  from  the  body  so  that  the  wearer 
appears  to  be  a  kind  of  St.  Patrick's  cross  frisking 
about  on  one  end.  This  is  both  unlovely  and  ridiculous. 
The  lower  border  of  the  costume  should  not  stand  out 
farther  than  two  feet  at  most,  so  as  not  to  interfere 
seriously  with  the  main  idea  in  the  appearance  of  the 
human  form,  namely,  that  its  significance  and  beauty 
proceed  first  of  all  from  its  perpendicularity. 

But  costumes  are  only  appendages  to  the  dance.  Its 
master  spirit  is  music.  The  dance  expresses  to  the  eye 
what  ballet  melodies  speak  of  to  the  ear.  The  dance 
music  of  the  Greeks  was  comparatively  rudimentary, 
and  the  ballet  in  France,  before  the  time  of  Taglioni, 
was  in  general  indifferently  favored  by  Euterpe.  Music 
is  essentially  a  nineteenth  century  art.  It  administers 
better  than  the  other  arts  to  the  modern  nervous  love 
for  complicated  energies  and  muscled  rapidities. 

One  is  tempted  to  say  that  it  is  the  grand  opera  of 
our  era  which  made  possible  the  Augustan  period  of  the 
ballet.  Precisely  when  Rossini,  Meyerbeer  and  their 
compeers  came  into  glory  with  the  grandiose  Romantic 
opera,  ballet  dancing  commenced  its  great  flight  with 
Taglioni  in  the  tyrolienne  of  "William  Tell."     How- 


140       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

ever,  Taglioni's  style  demanded  the  more  classically 
turned  scores  of  that  day,  for  it  was  comparatively  a 
simple  and  light  design  of  enlacing  arabesques. 

If  one  inquire  closely  into  the  nature  of  the  trans- 
formation in  ballet  music  since  Taglioni's  day,  he  will 
probably  remark  that  it  has  proceeded  along  three 
general  lines.  First,  there  has  developed  the  dispo- 
sition to  weave  meshy  harmonies  in  such  rapid  and  con- 
v^oluted  successions  that  the  danseuse,  in  one  tour  of 
pas,  is  forced  to  link  together  several  different  senti- 
ments. She  has  not  merely  to  "trace  the  ciphers  of 
love"  (to  quote  a  madrigal  phrase  of  the  Louis  XIV 
era)  along  the  simple  cadences  of  a  neat,  distinct  mel- 
ody, she  must  also  execute  responses  to  the  more 
labyrinthine  moods  and  tremendous  fancies  of  a  mod- 
ern orchestra  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  musicians  with 
its  occasional  masses  of  crashing  sounds.  She  must 
confront  and  match  its  tours  de  force  with  her  tours 
de  force  of  lower  limb. 

Thus  it  is  but  natural  that  she  dreads  to  buffet  in 
opera  the  great  billows  of  harmony  which  roll  up  over 
the  footlights,  and  that  she  always  prays  for  simple 
scores.  Ballet-music  has  never  been  so  highly  devel- 
oped and  so  technically  and  beautifully  effective  as  in 
the  present  epoch.  And  this  is  coincident  with  the 
evolution  of  the  dance  into  more  intricate  vigors  and, 
therefore,  into  the  legs.  For  the  legs  and  feet  can  in- 
terpret more  expertly  and  literally  than  the  body  and 
arms  the  complexities  of  the  modern  partition  with  its 
varied  and  realistic  authority  and  its  sensuous  court- 
ship of  romantic  ideality. 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  141 

The  next  significant  line  of  development  in  ballet 
music  is  indicated  by  the  familiar  word  leitmotif.  A 
musical  motive  may  be  attached  to  a  role  nowadays, 
and  the  orchestra  may  enter  fully  and  directly  into  the 
sentiments  and  caprices  capered  on  the  stage. 

And  again,  and  thirdly,  if  one  listens  attentively  to 
the  typical  ballet  music  of  the  epoch  from  1830  to 
i860,  he  will  remark  in  a  general  way  that  it  indicates 
on  the  boards  the  traceries  of  the  pas  (the  geometrical 
curves  interlined  on  the  floor  by  the  danseuse)  without 
concretely  embodying  forth  her  physical  self  in  move- 
ments. It  is,  one  may  say,  more  diaphanous  than  tan- 
gible. It  marks  time  rather  than  incorporates  attitudes 
and  motions:  it  describes  the  idea  of  dancing  rather 
than  the  plastic  body  of  the  dance  itself. 

With  the  growth  of  the  Romantic  and  the  Realistic 
schools,  however,  dance  music  for  the  theater  indulged 
more  and  more  in  picturesque  sentiment,  took  on  more 
of  substance  and  reality,  and  cultivated  a  more  inti- 
mate footing  with  the  danseuse  and  her  art.  The  re- 
sult was  the  perfection  of  ballet  music,  as  all  dancers 
call  it — that  of  the  late  Leo  Delibes.  His  music  vis- 
ualizes the  ballerine:  it  presents  her  corporeally  to  the 
senses.  He  possessed  what  the  French  term  physical 
sensibilities,  and  could  mold  music  into  the  palpable 
charms  of  woman.  He  had,  simply,  the  grace  of  con- 
tours and  of  plasticity,  as  had  Gautier. 

Delibes  not  only  chalks  out  on  the  boards  the  dia- 
gram of  the  evolutions,  but  he  shows  the  tournure  of 
the  limbs,  and  sculptures  forth  the  pas  into  the  air.  A 
phrase  or  strain  of  his  music  describes  what  the  dan- 


142       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

seuse  is  doing.  It  scrapes  courtesies  with  her,  it  ig- 
nites her  fancies  into  flamboyant  developpes,  it  ca- 
resses the  outlines  of  her  more  suave  moods.  Never 
sensual,  but  ever  richly,  at  times  exquisitely,  sensuous, 
his  music  is  of  and  for  the  ballet.  The  danseuse  is 
always  enthusiastic  over  Delibes,  for  he  lived  in  her 
domains,  he  understood  her  and  her  vocation,  and  his 
music  sympathetically,  captivatingly,  insists  on  develop- 
ing in  her  all  the  possibilities  of  Terpsichore.  And  this 
is  the  case  even  if  she  has  only  memory  and  not  a  pas- 
sion for  music;  for  a  ballerine  need  not  have  an  ear 
for  melody,  although  it  is  unquestionably  better  that 
she  should. 

Among  the  famous  ballets  seen  in  France  between 
1829  and  1863  were  "la  Sylphide,"  "la  Fille  du  Dan- 
ube," "Giselle,"  "la  Peri."  Since  then  have  been 
created  in  Paris  for  the  danse  noble,  "la  Source"  and 
"Sylvia,"  each  by  Delibes;  and  for  the  danse  de  demi- 
caractere,  "Coppelia,"  by  Delibes.  "Coppelia"  is  the 
delicious  triumph  of  French  ballets.  Its  libretto  is 
from  an  experienced  pen;  and  its  mounting  was  the  last 
work  of  Saint-Leon,  by  far  the  greatest  of  French 
choregraphers. 

Very  little  of  the  music  of  the  celebrated  opera-bal- 
lets of  other  days  was  performed  toward  1900  in 
Paris.  The  memories  of  the  danseuses  of  that  epoch 
were  idolized,  and  their  composers  unremembered. 
But  Delibes  was  immortalized,  and  already  the  cre- 
ators of  his  roles  were  almost  forgotten.  Music 
seemed  in  a  measure  to  have  eclipsed  the  ballet  star. 
And  not  without  reason,  for  one  perhaps  fancies  some 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet  143 

scores  of  modern  ballet  music  more  than  any  dancing. 

There  is  an  irresistible  strain  in  "Coppelia"  (Delibes, 
1870)  which  echoes,  in  the  realm  of  the  ballerine,  what 
became  a  characteristic  note  in  French  poetry  about 
1865.  It  is  a  strain  of  incurable  love  wherein  de- 
licious energies  thrill  and  spiritedly  leap  forth  with 
refined  brilliancy  and  then,  stricken  gently  but  hope- 
lessly back  in  a  decadent  chord,  recede  in  the  anemic 
ecstasies  of  a  distinguished  heartache — in  languors  that 
elegantly  isolate  until  they  forsake  one  in  exquisite 
forlornness.  In  the  evolution  of  French  ballet  music, 
"Coppelia"  is  also  the  first  and  most  seductive  scene  of 
ni^ht  music.  It  perfectly  reflects  its  environment — 
evenings  of  ballet  at  the  opera.  It  loses  much  of  its 
charm  if  played  afternoons  in  a  park.  It  is  not  for 
daylight,  for  it  shares  in  the  sensuousness  of  lighted 
stage  and  in  the  insinuations  of  perfumed  loges. 

To  enjoy  ballet  dancing  thoroughly  one  should  not 
only  have  an  ear  for  music  but  be  able  to  some  extent 
to  appreciate  its  phrases  and  moods.  Otherwise  he 
cannot  understand  how  human  movements  mold  the 
meaning  of  the  orchestra;  he  cannot  fully  delight  in 
those  refined  sensations  which  are  born  of  the  hymen 
of  the  grace  of  music  and  the  grace  of  motion.  Each 
note  calls  for  an  action  (un  temps)  or  a  pose,  each 
phrase  for  a  pas,  each  strain  for  a  chaining  together 
of  evolutions  and  attitudes.  A  trained  musical  ear  is 
more  necessary  to-day  than  ever  for  the  spectator. 

Yet  there  is,  among  the  average  onlookers  at  an 
opera,  scarcely  one  person  in  five  hundred  who  has  a 
knowledge   and   an  intelligent   conception   of  Terpsi- 


144       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

chorean  grace,  who  knows  when  a  danseuse  is  correctly 
interpreting  the  music,  and  who  thrills  with  enlightened 
pleasure  when  she  really  melts  into  its  embraces.  It 
is  safe  to  say  that  the  ballet,  at  its  best,  affords  some- 
thing of  this  cultured  entertainment  to  not  more  than 
thirty  persons  among  the  two  thousand  who  frequent 
the  Grand  Opera  in  Paris.  For  not  only  are  the  re- 
fining aspects  of  the  theater  dance  difficult  to  appraise, 
but  its  unfavorable  features  and  its  imperfections  are 
always  strikingly  apparent.  To  many  people  it  seems 
a  meaningless,  graceless  spectacle  wherein  men  and 
women  are  grimacing  and  kicking  about.  Perhaps  Rus- 
kin  had  this  in  mind,  among  other  things,  when  he 
branded  with  his  righteous  pen  the  modern  "mean,  car- 
peted, gauze-veiled,  mincing  sensuality  of  curls  and 
crisping  pins,  out  of  which  [he  believed]  nothing  can 
come  but  moral  enervation  and  mental  paralysis." 

One  is  prepared  now  to  pose  intelligently  the  ques- 
tion for  the  year  1900,  Was  the  ballet  then  in  deca- 
dence? Every  one  seemed  to  be  saying  that  it  was.- 
Distinguished  musical  critics  like  Weber  of  "Le 
Temps"  took  this  for  granted.  Even  the  ballet  bat- 
talion at  the  Paris  Opera  professed  to  share  this 
opinion.  They  declared  that  there  were  no  dancers  any 
more;  the  professors  of  the  dance  claimed  that  there 
were  none  left  in  their  classes;  and  the  Paris  master  of 
the  ballet  himself  insisted  with  refreshing  modesty 
that  there  were  no  masters  of  the  ballet  in  his  epoch. 

But  all  this  should  not  necessarily  mislead  one,  for 
every  generation  has  clamored  about  the  degeneracy 
of  the  ballet.     Adice,  writing  toward  the  year  i860, 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   145 

bewailed  its  fallen  condition;  Saint-Leon  treated  of  the 
decadence  of  the  dance  in  a  well-written  essay  in  1856; 
and  there  were  critics  who  were  complaining  of  the 
same  thing  between  1830  and  1840.  And  yet  that 
period  is  looked  back  upon  as  the  golden  age  of  the 
dance. 

When  the  decadence  of  the  ballet  was  spoken  of 
toward  1900,  decadence  of  the  pantomime  was  un- 
consciously meant.  The  two  are  not  the  same  thing. 
In  pantomime  the  attention  is  on  the  dumb  show;  in 
the  ballet,  it  is  on  the  dancing.  "Coppelia,"  for  in- 
stance, is  sometimes  called  a  ballet-pantomime  because 
there  is  acting  In  it,  but  it  is  properly  a  ballet,  and  is 
always  designated  as  such  by  savants  in  the  art,  since 
the  interest  attaches  to  the  pas  as  pleasing,  dexterous 
Interpretations  of  music.  A  ballet  may  be  either  purely 
a  ballet  danse,  or  it  may  be  a  mixed  ballet  wherein  the 
pantomime  Is  outshone  by  the  dancing. 

The  pantomime,  it  is  true,  was  in  decadence,  but  the 
ballet  as  a  whole  could  not  be  said  to  have  been.  Sev- 
eral features  made  up  its  charm:  first  and  mainly,  the 
dancing  (with  its  frequent  pantomimic  effects),  then 
the  music,  and  then  the  accessories  of  costume  and 
scenery.  By  dividing  the  modern  era  of  the  ballet  into 
two  equal  epochs — 1829  to  1863,  and  1863  to  1897 — 
one  can  clearly  and  fairly  discover  what  features  have 
declined  or  progressed.  The  ballet,  in  so  far  as  It 
pertains  to  pantomime,  shares  naturally,  in  the  second 
epoch,  in  the  general  decline  of  the  pantomime. 

Therefore,  as  seen  above,  the  ballet  was  notably  in 
decadence  in  the  use  of  the  upper  and  the  more  panto- 


146       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

mimic  part  of  the  body,  and  in  the  art  of  producing 
graceful  effects  and  ideal  conceptions  with  the  whole 
person — that  is  to  say,  with  the  ensemble  of  the  dancer 
as  embodied  in  a  role.  And  then  the  danseuses  of  the 
second  epoch  will  never  be  so  famous  and  seem  so  in- 
comparable to  posterity  as  those  of  the  first  epoch, 
and  justly  so  notwithstanding  the  comparative  lack  in 
the  latter  of  adroitness  and  pas;  for  the  first  epoch  was 
marvelously  fertile  in  inspired  artists  of  the  dance  who 
were  unique  in  the  various  styles  which  they  conceived. 

In  other  aspects  the  ballet  was  superior  in  the  second 
period  toward  1900,  The  legs  and  feet  were  far  more 
skilled,  and  consequently  the  pas  were  more  expert. 
The  star  of  1900  could  render,  literally  and  perfectly, 
a  more  intricate  score  of  music  than  could  any  of  her 
famous  predecessors.  Even  in  the  indifferent  ballet  "la 
Maladetta,"  created  at  the  Grand  Opera  in  Paris  about 
1893,  it  was  edifying  to  see  how  completely  and  ef- 
fectively every  mood  of  the  orchestra  was  expressed 
by  a  tour  de  pas.  For  it  is  notably  herein,  as  indicated 
above  with  respect  to  Delibes,  that  the  best  dance  music 
of  latter  times  surpasses.  It  is  ballet  music  written  to 
be  danced  by  women.  The  motives  and  harmonies  are 
wedded  to  a  pas;  they  are  more  sympathetic  and  col- 
ored, and  are  apt  to  be  more  distinguished  in  senti- 
ment than  the  musical  themes  for  Terpsichore  in  the 
earlier  epoch. 

In  passing,  one  may  note  Gounod's  melodious  ballet 
music,  and  also  that  of  Massenet  whose  style,  though 
unlike  Gounod's,  is  frequently  entrancing  for  the  dance, 
since  he  makes  up  for  rich  coloring  and  plasticity  by 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   147 

his  finely-wrought  sensuousness  and  ravishingly  com- 
plicated energy.  His  music  is  to  be  criticized  at  times 
for  certain  tints  of  sensualism.  Voluptuousness  taints 
the  charm  in  the  ballet  as  quickly  as  in  any  other  art. 
The  sensuality  of  his  scores,  however,  is  of  a  most  re- 
fined and  mentalized  type. 

Along  with  the  development  in  ballet  music,  and  also 
in  pas  and  in  the  improvement  of  their  execution,  there 
is  to  be  noted  again  the  increased  taste  and  elegance  dis- 
played toward  1900  in  costuming,  notwithstanding  the 
refractoriness  which  the  typical  ballet  skirt  of  our  epoch 
manifests  toward  artistic  loveliness.  Likewise,  incred- 
ible progress  was  shown  in  the  matter  of  scenery.  To 
understand  how  immeasurably  superior  the  stage  ap- 
pointments are  at  present  compared  with  those  of 
Taglioni's  day,  the  reader  need  but  peruse  the  criticism 
of  Castil-Blaze  in  1832  on  the  innovations  in  stage 
decorations.  Primitive  attempts  were  then  just  being 
made  to  substitute  material  objects  representing  trees, 
rocks,  houses,  for  merely  painted  scenes  shoved  across 
the  stage  In  sight  of  the  spectators. 

Castil-Blaze  put  his  naive  complaints  and  curious 
logic  into  this  language:  "The  new  system  of  decora- 
tions at  the  Opera  takes  away  all  the  magic,  because 
it  does  not  permit  the  change  of  scene  to  be  accom- 
plished in  view.  These  big,  solid  objects  destroy  the 
perspective.  The  more  material  the  decorations,  the 
farther  will  they  be  from  the  truth.  The  canvases 
painted  by  the  Italians  succeed  each  other  on  the  stage 
with  rapidity,  and  are  better  than  all  these  mountains 
whose  construction  requires  three  quarters  of  an  hour." 


148       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

As  for  the  corps  de  ballet,  it  is  probably  not  so  se- 
verely disciplined  to-day  as  in  the  earlier  epoch,  but 
this  is  due  in  a  certain  sense  to  its  progress,  in  that 
it  is  much  larger  than  formerly  and  has  to  achieve  more 
difficult  tours.  For  the  pas  must  be  easy  to  permit  a 
corps  de  ballet  to  perform  with  precision  and  in  per- 
fect unison.  It  is  agreed  that  the  ballet  in  Paris  to- 
ward 1900  was  not  trained  so  thoroughly  as  in  Milan 
or  Vienna. 

Thus  it  is  to  be  remarked  that,  while  that  epoch  had 
no  Taglioni  nor  Elssler,  no  Cerrito  nor  Rosati,  al- 
though the  star  of  1900  was  more  skilled  in  pas  and 
in  mere  dancing  than  they,  it  contributed,  and  with  all 
that  this  means,  a  matchless  masterpiece  in  the  form  of 
a  ballet — "Coppelia."  The  comparative  decline  of  the 
star  toward  1900  was,  taken  alone,  a  sign  of  decadence 
in  the  dance,  just  as  was  the  intermixing  of  genres. 
Yet  her  decline  was  to  be  explained  by  the  fact  that 
while  she  had  been  formerly  the  cynosure  in  the  ballet 
(and  this  furnishes  the  reason  why  one  famous  ballerine 
formerly  succeeded  another  so  rapidly  in  public  favor), 
the  center  of  attention  was  distributed  in  the  1890's  be- 
tween the  incomparable  skill  of  pas  and  the  surpassing 
effects  of  the  immense  corps  de  ballet  and  of  the  music 
and  decorations. 

Therefore  a  danseuse  like  Mile,  Mauri  could  remain 
so  long  in  reign.  The  star  was  yet  a  great  attraction, 
though  no  longer  the  exclusive  one.  Her  art  at  the 
same  time  had  become  In  a  sense  more  of  an  expert 
business  and  less  of  a  caprice  and  inspiration. 

But  looking  at  the  matter  broadly,  the  decline  of 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet    149 

the  star  did  not  necessarily  evidence  a  decadence  of  the 
ballet.  Saint-Leon  wrote  in  1856  that  her  glory  had 
begun  to  fade  and  that  the  ballet  d'ensemble  would 
again  come  in  vogue.  It  has  been  noticed  above  that 
Taglioni  drove  the  ballet  d'ensemble  from  the  stage 
by  concentrating  all  the  attention  on  herself.  With 
her  the  star,  not  the  ballet,  became  the  object  of  in- 
terest, and  this  was  doubtless  looked  upon  by  many 
in  her  time  as  a  decline  of  the  ballet  into  the  sensations 
of  a  single  ballerine. 

Hence,  traditionally  and  logically,  the  ballet  as  seen 
in  the  last  generation  of  the  century  was  nearer  the 
complete  conception  of  the  term  than  at  any  time  since 
Taglioni,  because  no  one  feature  was  significantly  sac- 
rificed to  another.  It  was  the  regular  ballet  d'ensemble 
wherein  the  simple  evolutions  of  the  quadrilles  shared 
honors  with  the  displays  of  the  star.  One  seems  there- 
fore wholly  justified  in  concluding,  after  averaging  all 
its  aspects  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  their  meaning, 
that  the  ballet  in  1900  excelled,  or  at  least  held  its  own 
with,  that  of  any  other  epoch. 

It  would  be  idle,  even  if  the  decadence  of  the  ballet 
were  a  fact,  to  treat  it  as  if  a  return  to  the  art  of 
Taglioni's  decade  were  either  possible  or  desirable. 
Modern  spectators,  lovers  of  complicated  Romantic 
effects  and  nervously  adroit  energies,  would  soon  find 
Taglioni  tame  in  one  of  her  great  roles. 

The  men  of  the  present  time  crave  rightly  enough 
the  grace  and  the  ideal  of  a  warmer,  more  colorful, 
more  vigorous  type  than  our  grandfathers  knew  of. 
The  dancing  in  the  latter's  day  was  comparatively  cold 


150       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

and  distant.  As  the  Parisians  of  the  modern  epoch 
prefer  orchestral  harmonies  to  simple  melodies,  so 
they  prefer  grand  enchainments  of  dexterous  pas  to  the 
simple  roles  of  classic  grace.  They  romanesquely  love 
the  fougue  of  richly  developed  music  and  evolutions  in- 
stead of  the  slow  and  white  cameo  elegance  of  simple 
adagios.  This  explains  why  the  professor  of  the  dance 
to-day  keeps  exclaiming  to  his  pupil:  "More  vigor! 
More  fire!"  and  not:  "More  repose!  More  ele- 
gance!" The  generation  of  1900,  to  speak  compara- 
tively, had  lost  taste  for  simple  mythological  grace,  for 
formal  correctness,  and  for  cool  poetry  in  the  Terpsi- 
chorean  art;  and  it  had  gained  in  the  fondness  for  the 
execution  of  pas,  and  for  variety  and  entrain. 

The  ballet  in  France  had  not  declined  in  1900.  It 
had  simply  transformed  and,  on  the  whole,  improved. 
And  it  was  less  difficult  to  determine  this  than  to  have 
said  what  transformations  it  was  then  passing  through. 
It  might  have  seemed  that  pointe  dancing  was  begin- 
ning to  go  out  of  favor  a  little,  yet  one  was  scarcely 
justified  in  hazarding  even  this  statement.  Pointes 
have  been  so  long  the  feature  with  the  ballerine,  and 
are  detailed  so  prominently  as  the  ultimate  achieve- 
ment of  the  dance,  that  It  would  be  natural  if  the  public 
Inclined  at  length  to  weary  of  them. 

The  latter-day  audience,  full  of  the  love  for  Im- 
mensities and  masses,  was  doubtless  more  disposed 
than  Its  predecessors  to  prefer,  to  single  danseuses,  com- 
panies of  them — several  performers  executing  a  pas  in 
unison  and  with  "linear  perfection."  Genuine  applause 
Is  always  awakened  by  ten  or  twelve  ballerlnes  accur- 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   151 

ately  lined  down  the  stage  in  the  single  pose  of  an  ara- 
besque ouverte,  while  this  elementary  attitude  in  one 
ballerine  is  scarcely  noticed. 

Such  a  growing  preference  for  groups  would  be  asso- 
ciated with  the  relative  decadence  of  the  star,  and 
would  seem  to  be  proven  by  the  increasing  size  of  bal- 
lets,* and  also  by  the  magnificent  sceneries  of  our  epoch, 
since  groups  alone  give  display  to  grand  stage  effects. 
This  taste  for  clusters  of  danseuses  showed  a  whole- 
some fondness  for  the  simpler  phases  of  the  dancing 
art,  in  contrast  with  the  complex  admiration  which  the 
virtuosity  of  a  star  cultivates  in  the  spectator. 

It  was  a  question  three  generations  ago  whether  men 
are  needed  in  the  dance.  Their  number  was  first  di- 
minished in  the  ballet  at  the  Paris  Opera  in  1832,  while 
at  the  same  time  the  number  of  danseuses  was  increased. 
It  was  about  1846  that  the  roles  of  men  began  to  be 
taken  there  by  women.  Mile.  Sangalli  called  notice  in 
the  1870's  to  the  fact  that  some  people  held  the  male 
dancer  indispensable,  and  others  thought  him  useless, 
since  his  roles  could  be  assumed  by  women  in  his  guise. 
She  said:  "My  opinion  is  that  man  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary in  a  ballet.  He  contrasts  with  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  woman  in  a  more  effective  way  than  travesty 
permits.  But  while  I  maintain  that  he  is  indispensable 
in  the  pas  d'ensemble  and  in  groups,  I  maintain  that  he 
is  useless  in  the  soli." 

One   readily   agrees   with   the   above,   though   it   is 

•The  regular  ballet  at  the  Grand  Opera  in  Paris  consisted  in 
1900  of  two  stars,  forty  sujets  and  petits  sujets,  twenty  coryphees, 
three  mimes,  forty  members  of  the  two  quadrilles,  and  upward  of  a 
hundred  other  persons. 


152       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

preferable  that  the  male  dancer  be  retained  in  one  or 
two  of  the  soli  of  a  ballet.  He  may  not  be  especially 
interesting  to  male  spectators,  but  he  may  be  to  women. 
Furthermore,  it  is  the  general  opinion  that  the  stars 
and  the  sujets  should  be  drilled  by  men  rather  than  by 
women.  Mile.  Mauri  in  the  1890's  was  emphatic  on 
this  point.  The  most  efficient  professor  is  the  man  who 
teaches  well  and  dances  better  than  even  a  star.  All 
the  ballet  queens  of  former  times  were  educated  by 
famous  male  dancers.  Women  as  professors  of  sujets 
were  then  unknown,  while  latterly  at  the  Opera  in 
Paris  there  were  only  one  or  two  men  teaching.  This 
shows  how  the  dance  in  France  has  passed  into  the 
hands  of  women.  It  has  made  progress  on  the  whole; 
still  there  are  great  opportunities  for  improvement, 
and  more  men  as  professors  would  doubtless  lead  to 
this. 

By  abandoning  altogether  the  solo  male  dancer,  the 
art  of  masculine  dancing  would  be  lost,  and  the  absence 
of  its  imposing  vigor  would  doubtless  be  regrettable  for 
more  reasons  than  one.  No  artist  of  either  sex  at  the 
Opera  in  Paris  in  the  1890's  married  vigor  and  grace 
so  well  as  Vazquez;  no  one  presented  such  a  perfect 
profile  as  he  nor  took  such  model  attitudes  when 
launched  in  air.  To  do  away  with  the  danseur  or  ef- 
face him  into  mere  roles  of  accompaniment  where  he 
only  tosses  up  the  danseuse — a  performance  usually 
exaggerated — would  tend  to  make  the  ballet  more  lax 
in  discipline  and  would  have  removed,  in  this  instance, 
a  man  who  doubtless  surpassed,  when  supple  rapidity, 
virile  elegance  and   skillful  pas   are   considered,   any 


The  Great  Era  of  the  French  Ballet   153 

male  dancer  known  to  Terpsichorean  literature.  It  is 
true  there  was  In  his  time  no  agitation  of  the  above 
question;  but  male  dancers  in  the  classic  ballet  continue 
to  be  passing  from  public  favor,  and  relatively  fewer 
of  them  were  of  late  employed  in  soli  at  the  Paris 
Opera. 

As  a  general  comment  with  which  to  approach  the 
close  of  this  essay,  it  may  be  said  that  the  modern  cult 
of  the  body  for  health  and  beauty  might  be  advanta- 
geously extended  more  and  more  from  the  domains  of 
mere  athletics  to  the  ballet  realms  of  refined  grace  and 
elegant  vigor.    This  is  the  practical  object  of  the  dance. 

As  for  the  spiritual  part,  one  may  hazard  the  saying 
of  the  philosopher  Jouffroy  that  the  dance  "makes  souls 
appear  by  means  of  the  body."  And,  indeed,  those  who 
think  the  dance  necessarily  sacrifices  the  head  to  the 
feet  might  be  enlightened  by  perusing  a  forgotten  little 
book  by  a  danseuse  named  Mademoiselle  Michelet, 
entitled  "Bluettes  antlmondaines  d'une  danseuse," 
wherein  the  author  reverently  promenades  back  and 
forth  in  serious  philosophical  disquisitions  on  religion 
with  as  much  ease  as  she  doubtless  displayed  in  her 
ballon  and  temps  parcourus. 

Since  1900  the  ballet  or  opera  dance  has  departed 
with  quite  a  radical  completeness  from  what  has  been 
shown  in  the  preceding  pages  with  reference  to  the 
past  century.  The  Classic  ballets — the  danse  noble  as 
exhibited  by  Subra — are  retained  for  those  operas  for 
which  they  were  written.  They  are  not  being  devel- 
oped.   They  appear  to  be  a  fixed  and  past  type. 


154        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

The  Romantic  ballets — the  danse  de  demi-caractere 
as  represented  by  Mauri — have,  however,  been  remark- 
ably developed  since  1900  and  are  still  being  developed 
in  fashions  which  are  not  only  extraordinary  from  al- 
most every  standpoint  but  are  almost  beyond  criti- 
cism. For  originality,  variety,  ingenuity,  color,  beauty, 
natural  human  grace  the  contemporary  Russian  types 
surpass  the  most  extravagant  dreams  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

Its  ballets  now  seem  much  restricted,  much  clothed, 
artificial,  thus  still  attaching  to  the  restrained  traditions 
of  antiquity.  But  our  present-day  publics  are,  by  con- 
trast, unperturbedly  accustomed  to  bare  feet,  bare 
legs  and  greatly  bared  bodies,  which  lend  a  wholesome 
natural  freedom  and  grace  in  ways  that  would  have 
shocked  past  generations. 

Bare  feet  preclude  polnte  (or  toe)  dancing  which 
was  the  revelation  and  marvel  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury ballets.  Polnte  dancing  is  and  likely  always  will 
be  the  most  exacting  feature  of  the  dance,  since  it  must 
be  begun  in  childhood  and  requires  a  long  and  severe 
training.  Most  of  the  present  popular  dancers  cannot 
dance  on  the  toes  and  are,  therefore,  only  at  best  semi- 
professionals.  The  great  modern  professionals  like 
Pavlova  can  perform  on  the  pointes  as  well  as  in  every 
other  mode.  Polnte  dancing  must  seemingly  be  re- 
tained along  with  the  new  barefoot  forms  in  order 
to  denote  a  strictly  first  class  art. 

As  France  was  the  perfected  home  of  the  nineteenth 
century  ballets,  so  is  Russia  the  perfected  home  of  what 
promises  to  be  the  twentieth  century  models. 


iv.    The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest 


THE  SOCIOLOGICAL  ROLE  OF  THE  FOREST 

In  Fontainebleau.     August. 

THESE  outlines  for  a  speculative  essay  have 
been  noted  down  as  I  pass  the  hours  under 
these  beautiful  beeches  and  heroic  pines,  and 
recall  in  comparison  the  effaced  stateliness  of  the  Valois 
Compiegne  and  the  green  of  Soignies. 

Historically,  Fontainebleau  can  well  be  called  the 
most  important  of  all  woods,  as  will  be  readily  attested 
by  the  readers  of  the  history  of  Napoleon,  of  the 
French  Courts  and,  indeed,  of  nearly  all  French  epochs. 
In  the  arts  this  identical  forest's  associations  are  rela- 
tively as  prominent.  Not  to  speak  alone  of  the  Barbi- 
zon  school  which  nestled  in  these  borders,  scores  of 
well-known  artists  and  litterateurs  have  had  and  have 
their  homes  here  or  near  by.  For  literature,  too,  has 
been  enriched  by  the  soul  of  Fontainebleau.  A  very 
large  number  of  great  personages  in  varied  walks  of 
life  have  here  sought  seclusion  in  sojourn  or  residence. 
Not  only  political  and  religious  events  and  military 
movements  but  many  famous  hunting  parties,  high  so- 
cial functions,  romantic  episodes,  picturesque  love  af- 
fairs of  note,  have  claimed  this  spot  for  their  own. 

All  this  has  been  often  celebrated  and  by  many  a 
masterly  pen  and  brush.  But  of  Fontainebleau's  won- 
derful and  charming  example  in  a  sociological  role, 

157 


158       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

little  has  been  said  for  the  general  reader.  In  this 
respect  these  woods  are  scarcely  less  notable,  identi- 
fied as  they  are  with  the  course  of  human  development 
and  valuable  as  a  thing  of  loveliness  and  as  a  care- 
fully nurtured  product  of  man's  highest  nature. 

To  bring  out  this  scantily  recognized  asj^ect,  the  few 
following  pages  are  sketched  in  the  way  of  suggestive 
contemplation. 

Of  the  earth's  four  great  surface  features  termed 
the  sea,  the  mountain,  the  forest  and  the  plain,  the  last 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  Nature's  source  of,  or 
background  to,  any  of  the  later  leading  civilizations  or 
any  controlling  civilizing  factor  or  race  sentiment.  The 
mountain  seems  to  have  inspired,  or  become  associated 
with,  merely  the  sentiment  of  political  freedom — the 
love  of  physical  independence.  And  this  has  only  been 
true  in  modern  times,  for  the  Greeks  and  Romans 
scarcely  recognized  mountains  as  the  origin  of  any 
notable  and  practical  kind  of  inspiration.  For  that 
matter,  Holland,  whose  mountains  are  its  beffrois,  has 
played  at  least  as  prominent  a  part  as  Switzerland  in 
the  history  of  political  liberty.  This  comparatively 
narrow  role  of  the  mountains  is  doubtless  ascribable 
to  their  sparse  and  more  or  less  remote  population, 
and  to  the  difficulties  they  offer  to  human  intercom- 
munication. 

Thus  notice  is  drawn  at  once  to  the  sea  and  to  the 
forest  as  the  great  physiographical  backgrounds  of  the 
later  civilizations.  It  occurs  immediately  to  us  to  say 
that  the  sea,  rather  than  the  forest,  lay  back  of  the 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  159 

Greek  and  Roman  cults  of  enlightenment.  The  prom- 
inent Nature-basis  of  the  Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  the  iEneid, 
and  of  the  Hellenic  and  the  Roman  history  and  myth- 
ology, is  the  sea.  Athens  and  Rome  were  near  the 
borders  of  a  large  water.  The  chief  modern  European 
capitals,  on  the  contrary,  are  inland  amidst  forestal 
interiors.  When,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  civilization  began 
its  new  life  north  in  mid-Europe,  it  was  natural  that 
the  forest  should  supplant  the  sea  as  the  physiograph- 
ical  basis  of  sociological  development.  And  this  ap- 
pears indeed  true :  the  forest  is  the  mise-en-scene  for 
the  epic  of  Charlemagne,  and  for  the  action  of  the 
whole  distinctively  modern  civilization. 

Before  attempting  to  sketch  the  theme  of  the  socio- 
logical contrasts  of  sea  and  forest,  it  would  be  well  per- 
haps to  agree,  for  the  sake  of  clearness  and  brevity, 
that  the  two  words  ancients  and  ancient  shall  refer  to 
the  Greeks  and  Romans;  and  that  the  terms  neo-an- 
cients  and  neo-ancient  shall  designate  the  Roman  Cath- 
olics and  their  church,  since  it  is  the  direct  successor  of 
the  old  Roman  religion  and  preserves  visible  traces  of 
many  of  the  Latin  forms,  rites  and  traditions,  while 
evidencing  that  especial  devotion  to  unity  and  beauty 
which  is  ever  the  mark  of  the  ancient  civilization.  And 
by  the  words  modern  and  modernity  we  shall  signify 
that  which  is  to  be  distinguished  as  modern — all  moral, 
intellectual  and  art  revolts,  revolutions  and  important 
changes  which  have  sprung  from  or  characterize  the 
later  Europe,  and  not  Greece  or  ancient  Rome. 

In  considering  the  relation  of  the  sea  and  the  forest 
to  the  arts  in  their  usual  order,  we  note  that  we  com- 


i6o       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

monly  think  of  the  Gothic  as  the  significantly  modern 
type  of  architecture.  And  what  is  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
as  is  so  often  pointed  out,  but  a  bit  of  grand  forest 
petrified?  There  is  a  succession  of  Gothic  churches  on 
either  hand  as  we  walk  through  the  woods.  The  trees, 
stretching  away  in  semblance  of  rows,  are  the  columns, 
and  they  unfold  skyward  into  the  vault  of  Heaven,  just 
as  the  pillars  of  a  cathedral  upfurl  into  the  arching 
roof.  You  see  alleys  for  aisles,  copses  for  chapels,  and 
glad'es  for  the  interceptions  of  nave  and  transept.  The 
branches,  sprigs,  leaves  and  the  fretted  top  of  a  forest 
— all  in  their  aspiring  tendency  upward — are  Nature's 
prototypes  for  the  fragile,  lacelike  Gothic  groined 
vaults,  pinnacles.  A  wood,  with  its  masses  of  sorrow- 
ful religious  shade  cheered  up  by  light  from  above,  ex- 
emplifies the  interior  of  a  Gothic  church. 

The  forest,  that  is  to  say  the  tree,  is  architectural 
in  principle.  It  has  a  variety  that  is  harmonious  and 
chordal  and  that  blends  with  the  majesty  of  the  whole. 
If  Ruskin's  definitions  of  symmetry  and  proportion  are 
acceptable — "The  property  of  a  tree  in  sending  out 
equal  branches  on  opposite  sides  is  symmetrical;  its 
sending  out  shorter  and  smaller  toward  the  top,  pro- 
portional"— we  remark  how  the  sea  could  not  well  be 
the  Nature-source  of  inspiration  for  Gothic  architec- 
ture, because  the  sea  typifies  least  of  all  the  pro- 
portional. 

But  the  forest  (the  tree)  does  prefigure  the  modern 
Gothic  tendency  to  upwardness,  or  more  specifically 
the  idea  of  verticalness,  which  is  the  main  principle  of 
proportion.     In  contrast,  the  architecture  of  the  an- 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  i6i 

cients,  like  the  sea,  is  characterized  by  the  horizontal, 
not  the  vertical — by  levels,  not  heights.  The  prevail- 
ing sense  of  levelness  in  the  ancients  was  the  expression 
of,  or  accompaniment  to,  their  creed  of  fatality.  The 
relative  importance  given  the  column  in  Greek  and 
Roman  architecture  was  perfectly  representative  of  the 
mortal  struggle  of  lifting  up  against  the  horizontal 
dead  weight  of  human  destiny.  In  the  Greek  temple, 
the  columns  stand  for  this  struggle  upward,  while  the 
roof  symbolizes 

The  leveling  weight 
Of  mortal  fate! 

We  may  say  that  Gothic  architecture  was  the  in- 
stinctive uprising  of  the  French  and  the  German  against 
the  ancient  and  neo-ancient  influences.  In  this  upris- 
ing of  the  Gothic  spirit  were  displayed  the  French  love 
for  lightness,  airiness,  delicacy,  and  the  German  love 
for  somber  depths  and  lofty  solemn  grandeurs — all 
reaching  up  through  the  zone  of  earth's  fatality  toward 
God  and  consequently  hope.  That  Catholicism  should 
have  seized  hold  of  the  Gothic  types  in  churches  only 
illustrates  its  neo-ancient  nature. 

As  for  sculpture,  we  find  its  characteristic  of  bare- 
ness illustrated  in  the  sea.  The  nakedness  and  the  open- 
ness of  the  sea  are  reflected  in  statuary,  and  accentuate 
an  opposition  to  the  modern  characteristic  of  clothed- 
ness,  for  which  Nature  furnishes  an  associate  in  the 
leafy,  secluding  forest.  Hence  arises  that  affinity  be- 
tween the  sea  and  sculpture  in  their  mutual  suggestion 


i62       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

of  lubricity.  Their  slippery  smoothness  has  ever  sug- 
gested the  lubricous,  for  which  term  the  forest  presents 
no  synonym.  Venus  was  born  not  of  a  tree  but  of  the 
lascivious  wave  whose  tongue  lapped  the  contours  of 
her  nude  beauty.  The  powers  of  expression  inherent 
in  the  sea  and  in  sculpture  lie  only  in  the  surface.  The 
ocean's  straight  lines  and  curves,  its  emphasis  on  con- 
vexity and  outline,  all  signalize  it  as  the  great  Nature- 
symbol  of  the  exterior  and  of  the  Greek  genius  for 
form — that  which  makes  for  the  visibly  effective. 

In  painting,  the  ancients  seem  to  have  heeded  6orm 
rather  than  color.  The  function  of  perspective  being 
to  do  that  for  design  which  chiaroscuro  does  for  color 
— to  modulate,  to  soften  and  to  render  agreeable — it 
appears  that  the  ancients  understood  and  employed 
perspective  successfully,  but  not  chiaroscuro.  The  lat- 
ter is  a  modern  means  of  expression  in  painting.  It  is 
obvious  that,  in  Nature,  chiaroscuro  is  best  studied  in 
the  forest  (where  there  is  the  play  of  varied  light 
against  dark  backgrounds),  and  that  the  sea  supplied 
the  ancients  with  the  most  striking  illustration  of  the 
laws  of  perspective. 

In  admitting  that  chiaroscuro  may  serve  to  distin- 
guish painting  from  the  other  arts  and  is  more  ex- 
pressive of,  and  the  more  closely  associated  with,  the 
emotional  and  the  moral  than  are  design  and  form 
which  are  more  mental,  we  are  led  to  the  fact  that  the 
greatest  age  in  painting  came  after  the  era  of  the  an- 
cients, and  produced  eminently  a  moral — a  Christian 
— art.  Moral  7notifs  are  forest  motifs,  we  shall  note. 
In  the  glorified  use  of  color  by  the  Italian  painters,  we 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  163 

may  see  Italy's  revolt  or  deflection  from  what  the 
world  had  hitherto  accepted  as  the  ancient  influences, 
just  as  in  Gothic  architecture  lay  the  northern  re- 
action and  self-assertiveness  from  the  ancient  domin- 
ion. 

In  modern,  and  hence  in  Christian,  painting  ver- 
tical rays  prevail — rays  rising  Heavenward;  and  they 
are  illustrated  in  Nature  by  the  forest  whose  growth 
is  upward.  The  ancient,  or  pagan,  painting,  we  may 
safely  say,  was  characterized,  like  the  ancient  archi- 
tecture and  its  sea,  by  horizontal  lines  representative  of 
the  Greek  and  Roman  fatalism  and  materialism.  It 
seems,  therefore,  natural  that  Millet  and  Theo.  Rous- 
seau, born  of  Nature  and  of  the  Romantic  school 
in  France,  had  their  homes  here  in  the  Fontainebleau 
woods  and  not  by  the  sea.  The  forest,  with  its  hope- 
ful beams  and  streams  of  life  against  moral  depths  of 
shade,  and  with  its  delicate,  chiaroscuro  effects,  its 
points  and  broken,  diflicult,  fragments  of  color  and 
form,  made  Fontainebleau,  rather  than  the  overpower- 
ing sea,  a  suitable  abode  and  object  of  worship  for 
the  men  of  Barbizon.  For  these  were  precisely  the 
first  French  painters  of  the  earnest  soul — the  interior — 
of  things  as  well  as  of  surfaces. 

Music,  the  distinctively  modern  art,  has  its  Nature- 
source  in  the  forest  rather  than  in  the  sea,  because,  for 
one  reason,  the  forest  echoes — it  enhances  the  value 
of  sound  both  as  to  volume  and  sweetness.  The  sea 
represents  echoless  expanse,  whereas  the  forest  can 
transform  the  crudest  clangor  into  celestial  harmonies. 
A  touch  of  the  breeze  on  the  leaf-limbed  harpchords 


164       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

of  the  woods  produces  delicious  minors;  while  the  dull 
moan,  the  fatalistic  roar,  of  the  sea  suggest  noise  and 
power,  not  music.  The  triumph  of  the  Romantic  school 
in  music  had  its  direct  Nature-source  in  the  woods, 
whether  we  think  of  the  forestal  operas  of  the  forest- 
haunting  Weber,  or  of  the  Wagner  music-dramas  with 
their  medieval  themes  and  mid-European  associations, 
or  of  the  French  Romantic  operas  where  the  cors  de 
chasse  resound  and  the  mise-en-scene  presents  forests 
instead  of  the  ocean.  Silvan  Germany  has  given  the 
grandest  music  to  the  world. 

What  is  true  of  the  arts  with  respect  to  the  sea  and 
the  forest  may  be  expected  to  be  likewise  true  of  lit- 
erature. But  this  branch  of  the  subject  would  demand 
nothing  less  than  a  volume. 

We  may  pass  on  to  note  how  intimately  the  forest  is 
allied  to  the  modern  religion  of  Protestantism  and  to 
the  modem  institution  of  the  home.  Protestantism, 
that  sturdy  moral  revolution,  came  from  wooded  parts 
of  Europe.  The  wood  is  the  great  Nature-source  and 
emblem  of  all  that  is  "agreeable  to  our  moral  nature 
in  its  purity  and  perfection."  The  forest's  silence, 
depths  and  shade  inspire  the  impulse  for  morality  and 
love  of  religious  liberty  and  of  silent  contemplation. 
Wherever  Protestants  held  sway,  there  were  forests, 
and  the  forests  were  preserved.  Wherever  Protes- 
tants were  persecuted  and  forced  to  flee,  their  flight 
was  followed  by  the  devastation  of  the  woods. 

This  was  the  case  in  France,  and  it  was  notably  the 
case  in  Spain  where  the  Inquisition,  the  severest  of 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  165 

Catholic  persecutions,  was  accompanied  by  the  widest 
destruction  of  forests  by  human  hartds  that  man  has 
perhaps  ever  seen.  The  Spaniard's  "hatred  of  a  tree" 
is  proverbial.  The  disposition  of  Catholicism,  in  the 
main,  has  been  inimical  to  the  forest  and  propitiatory 
to  the  sea.  It  is  a  fitting  coincidence  that  Victor  Hugo, 
the  anti-Catholic  leader  of  Romanticism  in  French  lit- 
erature, wished  to  be  buried  in  some  forest,  while  his 
Catholic  mate  and  pendant  Chateaubriand  desired  that 
his  own  remains  repose  near  the  sea.  And,  accordingly, 
the  tomb  of  the  immortal  Rene  was  reared  by  the  ocean 
at  St.  Male. 

A  forest  is  Nature's  expression  of  the  idea  of  the 
home.  The  home  signifies  an  interior,  and  the  forest 
and  a  Gothic  church  emphasize  the  interior;  while  in 
the  sea  (as  we  have  noted)  and  in  the  Greek  temple, 
the  exterior  is  the  particular  manifestation.  The  ocean 
suggests  homelessness,  and  the  ancients  had  no  homes. 
The  home  came  from  the  forest  races.  A  forest  means 
shelter,  protection,  and  stands  for  the  individual's  right 
to  quiet  and  seclusion. 

Thus  shade — an  attribute  which  distinctly  separates 
the  forest  from  the  sea — becomes  a  distinguishing  char- 
acteristic between  the  art,  religion  and  life  of  the  an- 
cients and  of  the  moderns.  An  immense,  fierce  sunlight- 
irradiates  the  sea-entwined  lands  of  the  ancient  Hel- 
lenes and  Romans,  while  shade  and  shadow  gloom  the 
countries  of  the  North  and  their  modern  civilization. 
And  together  with  the  umbrageous  and  interior  effects 
of  the  forest,  which  is,  as  we  have  seen, 


i66       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

*'True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home," 

there  is  the  inward  quality  of  tenderness  which  we  may 
oppose  to  the  exterior  effect  of  grace  in  the  Greeks. 
How  aptly  does  the  familiar  line 

"Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender," 

describe  the  Greek  spirit ! 

Since  the  forest  is  so  closely  the  prototype  and  as- 
sociate of  the  Gothic  church  and  of  the  home,  it  may 
be  said  to  bear  a  like  relation  to  the  communal  motive 
which  has  come  down  to  us  from  the  Middle  Ages. 
Sabatier,  in  his  life  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  describes 
the  Gothic  cathedrals  (and  also  forests,  we  may  add  in 
extension  of  the  idea)  as  the  representative  triumph 
of  communal  institutions.  He  calls  the  Gothic  churches 
"the  lay  churches  of  the  thirteenth  century  built  by  the 
people  and  for  the  people:  the  true  communal  houses 
of  our  old  cities — museums,  granaries,  chambers  of 
commerce,  palaces  of  justice,  depots  of  archives,  even 
bourses  de  travail." 

In  this  wise  might  we  very  briefly  indicate  how  the 
sea  Is  the  Nature-type  for  the  ancient  civilization,  and 
how  the  forest  is  the  Nature-type  for  the  modern  civ- 
ilization— how  the  forest  is  Nature's  sociological  back- 
ground of  the  distinctive  deflections  of  modernity  from 
antiquity:  Gothic  architecture  in  France,  the  religious 
cult  of  glorious,  appealing  color  in  Italy,  and  Protes- 
tantism and  the  home  in  Germany.  While  the  trend 
of  the  ancient  civilization  was  outward  like  the  sea, 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  167 

that  of  the  modern  (and  Christian)  world  is  dualistic, 
being  upward  like  a  tree  and  inward — interiorward — 
like  a  forest.  The  contrast  of  modern  verticalness  and 
ancient  levelness  is  neatly  set  forth  in  the  history  of  the 
evolution  of  oratory.  In  modern  oratory,  one  of  the 
most  characteristic  gestures  is  that  of  raising  the  hand 
high  to  Heaven.  The  classic  Cicero,  on  the  contrary, 
held  that  the  gesture  of  an  orator  may  extend  wide  as 
the  arms  can  reach,  yet  it  should  never  pass  the  summit 
of  the  head. 


To  pass  from  these  more  general  considerations 
which  Fontainebleau  forest  inspires,  we  may  not  less 
enjoy  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  it  as  a  symbol  of 
what  a  tree  and  a  large  majestic  wood  signify. 

If  one  studies  the  forest  as  a  whole  and  for  itself 
alone,  he  soon  comes  to  regard  it,  not  as  a  meaningless 
group  of  trees,  but  as  an  organic,  sentient,  intelligent 
body.  The  tree,  for  its  part,  breathes,  absorbs,  grows, 
reposes,  dies,  like  man.  It  has  youth,  maturity  and 
old  age,  and  exhibits  individual  peculiarities  of  form 
and  complexion.  It  develops  an  individualistic  career, 
and  is  by  nature  aggressive  or  self-defending  or  both. 
It  craves  warmth.  Its  whole  life,  in  imitation  of  man's, 
is  a  struggle  upward  for  light.  Trees  requiring  the 
most  light  content  themselves  with  the  poorest  soil, 
and  vice  versa.  How  like  a  human  being  who,  as  he 
ascends  more  in  the  intellectual  and  moral  scale  and 
possesses  more  light  and  more  enlightened  content- 


i68        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

ment,  cares  less  (at  least  we  wish  to  think  so)  for  the 
material  things  of  earth  1 

The  tree  resembles  the  individual,  the  forest  re- 
sembles the  nation,  and  trees  of  the  same  kind,  a  race. 
Forests  are  republics — "those  green  republics,"  as  Sully 
Prudhomme  sings — whose  whole  is  made  up  of  a  col- 
lection of  individuals,  whereas  the  ocean  is  typical  of 
an  empire  wherein  the  sense  of  oneness  overwhelms  all 
else.  There  are  race  conflicts  among  trees  as  among 
men.  We  hear  that  a  great  war  is  going  on  at  present 
between  the  broad-leaved  trees  on  one  side  and  the 
conifers  on  the  other — those  arboreal  republicans  and 
Cossacks.  And  we  are  told  that  our  broad-leaved 
friends  are  gradually  winning  the  contest,  and  rightly 
too  since  they  are  of  a  higher  order  than  the  conifers. 

A  wood  like  a  people  perpetuates  itself  best  by  cross- 
breeding, A  forest  of  one  variety  of  tree  is  not  so 
vigorous  or  long-lived  as  a  multigenerous  forest.  It 
was  long  ago  noticed  here  in  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau  that  oaks  mingled  in  due  proportion  with  beeches 
flourish  robustly  for  five  or  six  centuries,  and  that  if 
unmixed  with  other  trees,  they  begin  to  decay  and 
die  at  the  top  after  forty  or  fifty  years.  Thus  a  diversi- 
fied society  is  as  essential  to  the  highest  development 
of  a  forest  as  it  is  to  that  of  a  people.  Cork  oak 
forests  thrive  especially  in,  and  are  particularly  charac- 
teristic of,  France  where  the  cork  industry  is  perhaps  as 
important  as  that  of  champagne.  And  the  amiable 
humorist  would  be  apt  to  remark:  Like  races,  like  for- 
ests— the  French,  resembling  their  cork  forests,  are 
precisely  the  lightest  of  races. 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  169 

Forests  were  the  home  of  our  arboreal  predecessors. 
They  were  also  the  friends  of  our  historic  ancestors. 
Wherever  large  forests  have  been  felled,  a  permanent 
scourge  has  followed.  The  mistral  was,  it  is  said,  the 
result  of  the  devastation  by  the  Romans  of  the  wooded 
heights  of  the  Cevennes.  "The  people  thought  this 
wind  a  curse  sent  of  God.  They  raised  altars  to  it  and 
offered  sacrifices  to  appease  its  rage."  Revolutions  in 
France  have  been  accompanied  usually,  if  not  always, 
by  lawless  crusades  against  the  woods.  The  peasants 
naturally  associated  forests  with  feudalism  and  royalty, 
because  the  forests,  under  the  ancient  regime,  were 
mainly  kept  by  the  nobility  for  the  chase,  thus  depriv- 
ing the  tillers  of  the  soil  of  ground  needed  for  agri- 
culture. 

It  is  claimed  that  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations  have 
been  coincident  with  the  conservation  and  destruction 
of  forests.  The  quality  of  the  brick  of  the  Romans, 
we  are  often  told,  improved  with  the  growth  of  Rome, 
was  unexcelled  during  the  era  of  her  magnificent  pros- 
perity, and  decayed  with  her  decline.  Forests  were  so 
rapidly  destroyed  during  the  period  of  her  downfall 
that  the  cost  of  wood  increased,  and  her  brick,  being  as 
a  result  less  thoroughly  burned,  became  thicker  and  con- 
sequently poorer.  The  decadence  of  Spain  has  been 
freely  ascribed  to  the  felling  of  her  forests,  while  the 
rise  of  England  has  been  attributed  to  the  wood-wealth 
of  her  colonies  and  the  resultant  supply  of  lumber  for 
ship-building.  The  Iberian  peninsula  has  a  less 
wooded  area  proportionate  to  its  size  than  any  other 
European  country  save  Denmark  and  Britain. 


1 70       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Turning  from  Catholic  Spain  we  find,  as  might  be 
expected,  that  Protestant  Germany  took  the  lead  in 
the  matter  of  conserving  and  caring  for  forests.  The 
scientific  world  has  now  well  established  the  fact  that 
the  forest  is  the  material  friend,  and  not  the  enemy,  of 
man  and  of  agriculture.  Injurious  insects  do  not  breed 
in  or  near  it.  Worm-eating  birds  dwell  along  its  bor- 
ders. It  combats  miasms  and  malarias.  It  is  a  moder- 
ator of  climatic  extremes  and  of  the  furies  of  Nature. 
It  equalizes  temperature,  humidity  and  drought.  It 
makes  the  hot  months  more  moist  and  cool,  and  the 
cold  months  more  dry  and  mild.  It  warms  and  protects 
in  winter;  it  shades  and  cools  in  summer. 

The  forest  is  naturally  much  closer  than  the  sea  to 
the  types  and  forms  of  civilized  institutions.  Here  on 
this  majestic  road  through  this  great  Fontainebleau 
wood  in  which  there  is,  strange  to  say,  neither  water 
nor  bird,  we  have,  on  our  right,  a  pine  forest  of  the 
north  and,  on  our  left,  a  beech  forest  of  a  more  south- 
ern latitude.  Two  zones,  two  species,  of  civilization 
are  thus  pictured  to  us  as  we  loiter  along.  Here  to- 
ward the  cold  north  is  the  red  heather  amid  the  sullen 
bowlders;  and  there  toward  the  smiling  south  are  the 
warm,  soft,  inviting  lawns  of  beech-leaves.  What  de- 
licious glimpses  yonder  up  those  paths  that  lead  their 
greenways  through  the  solitudes  of  beech  and  pine ! 
How  loyal  to  one's  soul  those  rows  of  trees  bristling 
the  edge  of  that  blue  oriflamme  of  distant  hills  and 
standing  dimly  athwart  the  misty  air  as  if  sentineling 
the  frontier  of  the  Other-World! 

Silviculturlsts  detail  at  length  the  intellectual  Inter- 


The  Sociological  Role  of  the  Forest  171 

est  that  the  woods  present.  Naturalists  tell  us  that  for- 
est animals  are  more  social,  sympathetic  and  quicker- 
witted  than  surface  animals.  The  forest  sharpens  the 
faculties  of  observation  and  clears  up  the  brain.  It  is 
a  specific  cerebral  tonic.  We  have  already  referred  to 
its  ethical  and  spiritual  influence.  In  representing  the 
interior  and  the  upward  it  represents  character,  while 
the  sea  symbolizes  the  charm  and  polish  of  grace — of 
the  exterior  in  life.  The  forest  inspires  trust,  a  com- 
forting snugness  of  existence,  while  the  sea  deadens  our 
finer  instincts,  sensibilities  and  hopes  by  its  inexorable 
openness  and  unpitying  brutality.  It  seems  to  picture 
to  us  the  impotency  of  man,  the  hopelessness  of  eter- 
nity, the  cruelty  of  the  infinite.  It  teaches  fear,  and  the 
forest,  faith.  The  wood-chopper  has  confidence  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,  and  the  fisherman,  terror. 

The  sea  is  pagan;  the  forest  is  Christian.  The  sea 
suggests  waste,  destruction,  death.  Unlike  the  forest, 
it  does  not  stand  for  growth.  From  the  beginning  of 
time,  it  has  terrified  the  torchbearers  of  civilization 
and  has  angrily  blocked  the  spread  of  progress.  It 
destroys  history  and  the  past.  The  ocean  and  its  ally 
sand  are  persistent  enemies  of  man.  Human  works  are 
washed  away  by  the  sea  and  are  conserved  by  the  for- 
est. The  forest  preserves  tradition  and  fact.  It  is  the 
friend  of  the  past  and  of  the  future;  and  within  its 
bosom  may  be  felt, 

"The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one." 

In  view  of  the  forest's  wholesome  and  effective 
role,  we  see  why  the  nemophilis  may  urge  that  the  for- 


172       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

est  is  more  truly  a  desirable  rest  resort  for  Christian 
man  than  is  the  seashore.  To  the  grandeur  and  fierce- 
ness of  the  sea,  the  forest  opposes  sweetness,  tender- 
ness. In  the  woods  one  escapes  the  glare  of  the  burn- 
ing sun,  the  relentless  winds,  the  driving  rains  and 
storms — all  the  powerful,  sudden,  harmful,  extreme 
manifestations  of  Nature  which  sweep  the  sea  coast. 
It  is  the  barbarousness  in  us  that  the  ocean  arouses 
with  its  spectacular  ominousness;  while  the  woods  ap- 
peal to  our  higher,  more  refined  selves.  We  recall 
Ruskin's  remark:  "As  I  have  grown  older,  the  aspects 
of  Nature  conducive  to  human  life  have  become  hourly 
more  dear  to  me;  and  I  had  rather  now  see  a  brown 
harvest  field  than  the  brightest  Aurora  Borealis." 

The  seaside  is,  in  our  day,  more  popular  in  summer 
than  the  forest.  Likely  the  reason  for  this  is  that 
wealth  and  fashion  can  better  display  their  show  by  the 
ocean  where  Nature  flaunts  her  wildest  schemes  of 
gigantic,  massed  colors.  The  forest  subdues  the  sen- 
sational, and  has  no  society  columns.  Perhaps  most 
modern  people,  like  Madame  Bovary,  love  the  sea  for 
its  tempests — for  its  colossal  arena  that  sets  off  the 
ceaseless  contrasts  and  terrific  violences  of  Pan.  One 
notes  how  naturally  Ruskin  turns  to  the  sea  for  his 
figure  of  speech  when  he  exclaims  that  those  who  love 
variety  and  change  are  the  weakest-minded  and  the 
hardest-hearted:  that  the  hardest-hearted  "hold  by  no 
cords  of  affection  to  any  shore,  but  drive  with  the  waves 
that  cast  up  noise  and  dirt." 

Are  there  not  those  who  would  say  that  there  is, 
sociologically,  too  much  of  the  sea  and  too  little  of  the 
forest  in  our  modern  civilization? 


V.     Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians 


HEDDA  GABLER  AND  THE  PARISIANS 

HEDDA  GABLER"  has  taken  its  place  as  one 
of  the  most  significant  and  influential  plays 
of  modern  times.  Even  by  those  who  do  not 
enjoy  it,  the  importance  of  its  originality,  not  to  speak 
of  its  prominence,  is  perforce  admitted.  The  reactions 
it  excited  in  the  French,  who  stood  forth  so  alien  to  its 
milieu  and  its  type,  were  an  interesting  test  and  a  salient 
result  which  vividly  bring  out  Parisian  tastes  and  stand- 
ards of  social  life. 

A  study  of  their  view  of  it  when  first  produced  in 
France  seems,  therefore,  well  worth  while.  The  con- 
trasts are  lucid  and  striking  and  set  forth  in  relief 
French  character  and  disposition  as  expressed  in  con- 
nection with  the  dramatic  art. 

Why  did  not  the  French  understand  *'Hedda 
Gabler"?  Of  all  Ibsen's  plays,  it  is  perhaps  the  least 
Norwegian,  being  apparently  in  accord  with  French 
ideas  in  the  following  respects: 

It  ha&  no  problem  or  thesis.  Its  moral  is  not  brought 
into  bold  relief.  It  is  not  surcharged  with  the  enig- 
matic, fatalistic,  terrible  weirdness  of  "The  Wild 
Duck,"  nor  has  it  the  vague,  evanescent  romance  of 
"The  Lady  from  the  Sea."  "Hedda  Gabler"  is  bur- 
dened with  no  monologues,  no  long  tirades.  The  dia- 
logue throughout  is  natural,  ingenious,  nervous  and 

175 


176       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

well  sustained.  This  is  especially  to  the  French  taste. 
With  them  conversation  is  usually  the  life  of  the  play, 
and  it  must  be  bright  and  entertaining.  What  the 
characters  say  should  be  simply  the  result  of  the  dia- 
logical  encounter,  and  not  of  premeditation — or,  in 
other  words,  no  forced  replies.  The  conversations  in 
"Hedda  Gabler"  are  of  this  nature.  Since  the  piece 
has  no  great,  broad  strokes,  no  excesses  of  coloration, 
no  oppressive  weight  of  despondency,  the  mind  of  the 
spectator  is  not  distracted  for  a  moment  from  the  dia- 
logue. The  characters  find,  French-like,  their  best, 
their  complete,  expression  in  their  interrelations.  No 
bewildering  perspectives  are  disclosed  in  the  progress 
of  the  plot,  and  the  characters  are  developed  in  the 
familiar  light  of  every-day  existence.  The  play  is 
simple  in  its  conception,  structure  and  action,  and 
Ibsen  has  observed  in  it  the  laws  of  order,  discretion 
and  delicacy — the  "medium  qualities"  which  the 
Parisians  prefer. 

Thus  it  would  appear  at  first  that  the  answer  to  our 
question — Why  did  not  the  French  understand  "Hedda 
Gabler"  ? — must  be  found  in  the  profound  contrasts  be- 
tween the  French  and  the  Norwegian  environments. 
Since  a  play  is  apt  to  be  the  typical  product  of  a  climate 
and  natural  scenery,  and  of  a  people  and  its  religious, 
political  and  social  conditions,  the  Scandinavian  drama 
is  properly  individualistic.  The  Norwegian,  under  his 
lowering  clouds,  among  his  wild  ridges,  along  his  jag- 
ged, abysmal  fiords  and  by  his  sullen  seas,  ever  verges 
toward  the  brink  of  the  tragic.  By  contrast,  grega- 
riousness   is  one   of  the   chief  characteristics   of   the 


Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians  177 

French.  The  city  is  their  ideal  and  "one  must  do  like 
the  others"  is  their  guiding  rule  of  action.  They  are 
relatively  free  from  egoism  and  personal  ambition. 
Their  vanity  is  displayed  in  their  admiration  of  Paris 
and  of  France — in  a  word,  of  their  race.  The  Scan- 
dinavian is  radical  and  intense  as  an  individual,  and, 
driven  by  his  imagination,  he  always  tries  to  go  to  the 
very  end.  The  French  are  radical  and  extreme  as  a 
nation  rather  than  as  individuals.  Impersonality  thus 
characterizes  their  drama :  the  ensemble  is  the  mark  of 
their  plays. 

Silence  is  as  necessary  to  the  Scandinavian  as  con- 
versation is  to  the  Parisian.  While  the  former  talks  in 
dumb  terms  and  broken  sentences,  the  latter  is  at  his 
best  when  he  converses.  At  the  same  time  the  French- 
man learns  especially  by  sight.  He  must  see^  literally, 
in  order  to  comprehend  well.  As  the  eye  requires 
form,  proportion  and  precision  for  its  visual  pabulum, 
the  result  is  that  these  qualities  are  essential  to  his 
drama.  But  in  the  dark  domains  of  the  North  the 
eye  is  of  less  artistic  importance,  and  the  plays  of  the 
dreaming  Norwegian  are  comparatively  vague  and 
amorphous.  With  him,  likewise,  there  is  no  marvel 
without  a  veil.  With  the  Parisian,  nothing  that  is 
veiled  is  marvelous. 

Now,  where  do  these  Scandinavian  traits  develop  in 
"Hedda  Gabler"?  Notably  in  the  three  prominent 
characters.  The  three  persons  whom  the  Parisians  did 
not  understand  are  Hedda,  Loevborg  and  Madam 
Elvsted.  In  what  ways  were  they  enigmas?  Let  us 
take  Sarcey  as  an  influential  representative  of  the  tra- 


1 78       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

ditional  French  ideas  of  the  drama  and  discuss  briefly 
his  questions  and  criticisms.  He  used  to  confess  in 
"Le  Temps,"  with  some  satisfaction,  his  inability  to 
discover  much  except  downright  stupidity  in  these  roles. 
He  described  Hedda  as,  at  least  in  Act  I,  a  Norwegian 
Madame  Bovary.  She  has  married  a  young  savant 
who  is  not  blessed  with  riches,  and  who  adores  her 
sillily  without  knowing  the  rebellions  and  rancors  which 
agitate  her.  Sarcey  Insisted  that  Flaubert  handled  the 
plot  with  much  more  fidelity  to  nature  than  Ibsen. 
That  was  true  for  Sarcey,  but  not  for  the  Scandinavian; 
and  it  is  difficult  for  the  unvoyaged  Frenchmen  to  be- 
lieve, not  to  say  realize,  that  types  of  character  not 
found  in  France  may  be  found  elsewhere.  Hedda  has 
flirted  in  the  past  with  a  Bohemian  of  genius,  Loev- 
borg;  and  in  repelling  his  advances  on  one  occasion, 
she  leveled  a  pistol  at  him.  He  resorted  to  drink,  and 
she  married  Tesman.  She  gave  up  Loevborg  as  hope- 
lessly debauched,  and  he  passed  from  her  mind. 

However,  Loevborg  becomes  acquainted  with  the 
young  and  childless  Madam  Elvsted  who,  in  her  de- 
votion to  him,  reforms  him.  Fie  is  the  Instructor  of 
her  husband's  children.  She  aids  Loevborg  in  his  liter- 
ary work,  and  is  deeply  interested  In  the  book  which 
he  is  writing.  His  head  Is  somewhat  turned  by  its  great 
success  and  he  suddenly  disappears  from  the  Elvsted 
mansion.  Madam  Elvsted,  who  has  no  affection  for 
her  elderly,  unloving  husband,  goes  in  search  of  Loev- 
borg, fearing  that  he  may  fall  into  his  old  habits.  She 
calls  on  Hedda  whom  she  had  known.  Hedda,  hear- 
ing of  Loevborg's  reformation  and  Madam  Elvsted's 


Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians  179 

literary  collaboration  with  him,  is  seized,  as  Sarcey 
said,  with  "infernal  thoughts."  He  could  not  imagine 
what  their  source  is,  nor  why,  henceforth,  she  acts  so 
distractedly.  He  complained  that  she  nowhere  clears 
the  mystery,  and  that  her  words  and  actions  are  ex- 
tremely incoherent. 

To  an  Anglo-American,  however,  this  character  pre- 
sents little  difficulty,  for  he  has  Icnown  Hedda  Gablers, 
or  can  easily  imagine  them.  Having  lost  her  mother  at 
an  early  age,  Hedda  has  been  carelessly  reared  by  her 
father.  General  Gabler.  We  picture  her  as  a  pale, 
thin-haired  person  with  martial-like  shoulder  knots,  and 
a  suggestion  of  the  Bernhardt  cincture.  She  has  cold, 
steel-gray,  challenging  eyes.  She  is  a  high-strung, 
dramatic  young  woman,  with  a  false  or  unfortunate 
theory  of  life.  Mediocre,  but  egotistic  and  ambitious, 
she  has,  what  the  French  call,  a  desire  to  "knock 
about."  Wishing  no  domestic  nor  maternal  duties, 
she  married  the  fumbling  Tesman  because  he,  of  her 
many  cavaliers,  was  the  only  one  who  offered  her  any 
kind  of  a  future.  After  all  her  fond  dreams,  she  finds 
herself  entering  upon  a  long,  dull  married  existence 
with  a  boyish  man,  a  bookworm,  who,  while  he  has 
promise,  develops  no  traits  that  correspond  with  her 
theatrical  ideas.  She  does  not  love  him,  nor  can  she 
love  any  one.  Ambition  takes  the  place  of  affection  in 
her  nature.  She  failed  to  save  Loevborg  because  she 
did  not  love  him. 

Madam  Elvsted's  call  is,  therefore,  an  awful  revela- 
tion to  the  high-metaled  Hedda.  All  in  a  moment  she 
understands  that  she  is  of  no  vital  importance  to  any 


i8o       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

person — that  she  has  no  role  in  the  world.  She  real- 
izes that  she  Is  no  part  of  her  husband's  career;  that  it 
can  never  bring  her  into  the  sort  of  relief  which  she 
craves;  that  she  has  had  no  real  influence  even  over 
Loevborg,  the  man  who  loved  her  passionately  and  who 
was  best  suited  to  her  ambitions.  She  sees  that  she  is 
destined  to  be  a  doll — a  domestic  nonentity^  Hence  i 
her  despair  and  the  source  of  her  "infernal  thoughts";! 
and  she  simply  gives  vent  to  her  genuine  feelings  when 
she  exclaims  In  her  dramatic  way:  "I  long  to  ha/e 
power  for  once  in  my  life  over  a  human  destiny  1" 

I  was  reading  Hedda  Gabler  one  morning  to  a 
French  friend,  a  professor  in  one  of  the  Paris  lycees. 
He  found  it  dehghtful  until  I  reached  the  above  sen- 
tence, and  I  could  not  induce  him  to  listen  to  another 
word  of  the  play.  "Why,"  he  said,  "a  character  in  a 
drama  must  love  somebody,  or  be  moved  by  a  distinct 
motive  or  some  concrete  passion,  and  not  by  vague 
Ideas  and  abstractions.  Instead  of  exclaiming  'I  love 
Loevborg!'  she  cries  out,  'I  want  to  be  of  importance  to 
some  one — any  one.'  Hedda  Is  cracked,  and  you  can 
never  make  a  true  drama  with  a  crazy  person  or  a  fool 
for  the  principal  character.     The  play  Is  absurd." 

The  foregoing  is  a  fair  statement  of  what  appeared 
to  be  Sarcey's  Ideas  of  the  conception  and  characters  of 
the  drama  In  general  and  of  Hedda  Gabler  In  particu- 
lar. But  to  us,  Hedda  is  neither  insane  nor  a  fool; 
she  Is  simply  terribly  mistaken.  From  her  standpoint, 
she  thinks  and  acts  logically,  she  measures  her  sur- 
roundings, she  plans  with  complete  self-possession, 
and  she  perceives  clearly  the  end  toward  which  she 


Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians  i8i 

is  precipitating  herself.  Yet,  mortal-like,  she  fails  to 
understand  that  the  fault  is  in  herself  and  not  in  those 
about  her.  Her  environment  is  as  she  has  organized  it. 
Her  ennui  and  unhappiness  come  from  her  own  color- 
less, cold  nature.  Brack,  the  social  villain  in  the  play, 
strikes  the  head  of  the  difficulty  when  he  says  to  her: 
"I  think  the  trouble  is  that  you  have  never  known  any- 
thing really  stimulating." 

The  Parisians  looked  at  Hedda  only  from  their  point 
of  view,  and  not  without  reason  for  she  is  largely  a 
French  character.  She  is  feverish,  dramatic.  She  is, 
individually  considered,  just  the  type  of  sensational 
heroine  so  often  staged  in  France.  But  the  Parisians 
could  not  imagine  why  she  should  take  such  a  tragic, 
diabolical  course.  Married,  she  is  free  to  exploit  her 
ambitions;  and  if  Loevborg  is  unavailable,  why,  they 
asked,  does  she  not  find  another  gallant,  since  it  is  ad- 
mitted that  she  only  wishes  comradeship?  The  expli- 
cation of  it  Is  that  this  is  hardly  possible  in  monoga- 
mous Scandinavia.  They  ignored  her  environment, 
and  hence,  whenever  it  influences  her,  she  seems  to 
them  absurd  or  crack-brained.  They  could  not  well 
believe,  judging  from  her  temperament  and  misdeeds, 
that  she  is  virtuous.  They  could  not  easily  see  why 
Hedda,  to  whom  the  all-night's  festivities  of  her  hus- 
band, Loevborg  and  Brack  were  quite  the  reverse  of 
shocking,  should  live  in  such  fear  of  scandal.  They 
did  not  realize  that  scandal  in  a  Norwegian  town  is 
different  from  scandal  in  Paris. 

In  other  words,  remembering  that  this  drama  shows, 
as  Ibsen  himself  explains,  the  result  of  the  contact  of 


1 82        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

two  social  environments  which  cannot  comprehend  each 
other — Hedda  as  opposed  to  good  old  Aunt  Juliana — 
we  may  affirm  that  its  first  performance  in  the  French 
capital  illustrated,  as  well,  how  the  Parisian  milieu, 
represented  by  Hedda  the  individual,  did  not  compre- 
hend the  Scandinavian  milieu,  represented  by  her  do- 
mestic, untheatrical  surroundings. 

Loevborg,  also,  was  without  signification  to  the 
French.  They  could  not  appreciate  the  ado  made  over 
his  indulging  in  a  glass  of  liquor,  nor  conceive  why  he 
should  kill  himself  because  of  a  single  carousal.  There 
are  rarely  drunkards,  as  we  understand  the  term, among 
the  better  French  classes.  Consequently  the  Parisians 
are  never  solicitous  about  any  one's  drinking  habits. 
As  for  an  occasional  gay  night,  that  does  not  appear  a 
sufficient  cause  to  them  for  the  fatal  or  moral  despair 
of  a  young  man.  Thus  the  character  of  Loevborg,  to 
us  so  natural  and  tragic,  was  ridiculous  to  them. 

The  last  of  these  Ibsen  "fools"  was  the  gentle, 
sympathetic  Madam  Elvsted,  whom  it  is  unnecessary, 
for  the  present  purpose,  to  discuss.  Yet,  what  is  more 
familiar  to  Americans  than  the  role  of  a  married 
woman  who  undertakes  to  reform  a  young  man? 
French  people  are  not  apt  to  concern  themselves  in  a 
missionary  way  about  the  private  life  of  others. 
Madam  Elvsted's  course  could  only  be  explained  by 
them  on  the  ground  that  she  is  simply  a  little  goose. 

When  Hedda  burns  the  book  because  it  is  the  infant 
of  Loevborg  and  Madam  Elvsted;  when,  in  giving  him 
the  fatal  pistol,  she  bids  him  end  his  life  gracefully; 


Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians  183 

when,  after  learning  that  the  ball  entered  the  stomach 
instead  of  the  temple  or  breast,  she  exclaims:  "It  Is 
finished!  Oh,  what  a  curse  of  ridicule  and  vulgarity- 
attaches  to  everything  that  I  merely  touch!" — the 
French  remarked  that  such  performances  are  only  the 
freaks  of  Idiots  or  the  nonsense  of  simpletons. 

The  difference  In  environment  affects  more  or  less, 
also,  the  art  In  this  play.  For  Instance,  its  dialogue 
apparently  possesses,  as  we  have  noticed,  the  qualifica- 
tions which  the  French  consider  necessary  for  success- 
ful stage  conversation,  yet  its  art  naturally  escaped 
them.  This  was  due,  among  other  things,  to  Its  low 
relief,  of  which  the  following  example  Is  taken  from  a 
conversation  between  Hedda  and  the  ciclsbeo  Brack — 
just  the  scene  one  would  expect  the  French  to  enjoy. 

BRACK 

All  that  I  ask  for  is  a  pleasant  little  circle  of  as- 
sociates whom  I  can  serve  by  word  and  deed,  and 
among  whom  I  can  be  allowed  to  come  and  go — as 
a  tried  friend 

HEDDA 

Of  the  husband,  do  you  mean? 

BRACK 

(Bows.)  Well,  above  all,  of  the  wife.  And  of  the 
husband  too,  of  course  that's  understood.  Don't  you 
know  that  an  arrangement  of  this  kind,  which  one 
might  call  triangular,  is  really  very  agreeable  to  all 
three  ? 


184       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

HEDDA 

Yes,  more  than  once  on  our  trip  I  realized  the  need 
of  a  third  person.  Ugh !  Those  tete-a-tete  In  the 
coupe. 

BRACK 

Happily,  the  wedding  journey  is  over  now. 

HEDDA 

{Shakes  her  head.)  The  journey  will  be  a  long  one 
— a  very  long  one.  I  have  only  reached  the  first  sta- 
tion. 

BRACK 

Well,  one  jumps  out  then  and  moves  about  a  little, 
you  know. 

HEDDA 

I  never  get  out. 

BRACK 

Really — never? 

HEDDA 

No,  for  there  is  always  some  one  who 

BRACK 

{Laughing.)    Who  looks  at  one's  ankles,  you  mean? 

HEDDA 

Precisely. 

BRACK 

Well,  but,  dear  me 

HEDDA 

{With  a  forbidding  gesture.)  I  don't  like  that.  I 
prefer  to  remain  tete-a-tete. 


Hedda  Gabler  and  the  Parisians  185 

BRACK 

But  if  a  third  person  gets  into  the  coupe? 

HEDDA 

Ah,  that  would  be  different. 

BRACK 

A  tried,  sympathetic  friend 


HEDDA 

— Entertaining  one  with  all  sorts  of  lively  sub- 
jects  

BRACK 

— ^And  not  at  all  a  specialist! 

HEDDA 

{Audibly  drawing  in  her  breath.)  Ah,  that  would 
be  a  great  relief. 

BRACK 

{Looking  around  as  he  hears  the  outer  door  open.) 
The  triangle  is  closing  up. 

HEDDA 

{Whispers.)     And  the  train  is  starting  again. 
Tesman,  the  husband,  enters. 

This  passage  was  lost  to  a  Parisian  audience.  Here 
arc  two  metaphors,  Hedda's  continued  double  entendre 
and  Brack's  indirect  persistence — a  tragedy  under  the 
guise  of  badinage — all  carried  along  together  some 
time  without  any  eclats!  This  complicated  grouping 
of  ideas  and  figures  of  speech  in  an  inconspicuous  way 


i86       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

without  a  sally  or  a  scintillation,  is  not  the  French  man- 
ner of  dealing  with  stage  dialogue. 

And,  then,  the  ordonnance  of  the  play  is  arranged  by 
endowing  Hedda  with  no  heroic  traits.  If  she  be  not  a 
fool  or  an  insane  person  we  must  admit,  the  French 
have  argued,  that  she  is  in  no  sense  worthy  of  the  first 
role.  She  not  only  does  not  attract  us:  she  hardly 
even  wins  our  sympathy  in  her  distress.  Above  all  she 
is  demoralizing.  Hence  they  wondered  why  the  Eng- 
lish, who  are  always  seeking  the  moral  everywhere, 
should  have  taken  early  notice  of  this  drama. 

Loevborg,  not  Hedda,  the  Parisians  told  us,  is  the 
true  center  of  the  plot.  He  has  genius,  fire,  nobility. 
He  possesses  truly  a  heroic  quality.  But  here  a  figu- 
rante is  the  heroine,  they  have  maintained,  and  in  ef- 
facing the  hero  in  order  to  give  prominence  to  her, 
Ibsen  created  a  deformed  play.  How  far  this  is  from 
satisfying  the  French  demand  for  unity,  symmetry, 
ordonnance  and  form  everywhere  in  the  drama  I 


vi.    The  Production  of  Noted  Persons  in 

France 


THE  PRODUCTION  OF  NOTED  PERSONS 
IN  FRANCE 

A  LIST  which  I  have  gleaned  of  noteworthy  per- 
sons born  in  France  in  the  nineteenth  century 
yields  a  total  of  1424,  of  whom  32  are  women. 
Artists  have  not  been  included.  The  table  is  made  up 
very  largely  of  names  known  to  literature,  science,  juris- 
prudence, politics,  theology.  It  is  merely  hoped  here 
to  give  in  a  general  way,  so  far  as  this  schedule  goes, 
some  notion  as  to  the  comparative  merits  of  Paris  and 
the  different  provinces  and  grand  divisions  of  France 
in  the  matter  of  productions  of  persons  of  note. 

Two  tests — that  of  area  and  that  of  population — 
may  be  applied. 

But  first  of  all  we  may  observe,  in  a  parenthetical 
paragraph,  that  the  national  capital  contributed  335  of 
our  noted  persons,  or  about  23%,  at  a  time  when  Paris 
represented  only  about  4%  of  the  population  of 
France.  This  showing  quite  justifies,  in  its  way,  the 
French  glorification  of  the  metropolis  on  the  Seine. 
Strikingly  superior  appear  to  be  the  chances  of  distinc- 
tion for  a  Frenchman  who  is  born  in  Paris  instead  of  in 
a  province. 

Now  applying,  first,  the  test  of  area  to  the  grand 
divisions  of  France,  we  notice  that  the  grand  division 
most  fertile  in  noteworthy  people  in  proportion  to  its 

189 


190       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

area  is  the  North  where  there  was  produced  one  noted 
person  for  every  90  square  miles.  Next  comes  the 
Northeast,  presenting  one  for  every  130  square  miles. 
Then  the  East;  next  the  Northwest.  The  Center,  the 
South  and,  poorest  of  all,  the  West  make  the  least 
creditable  showings.  Accordingly  the  parts  of  France 
richest  in  noted  people  lie  along,  or  adjacent  to,  the 
most  densely  settled  of  the  bordering  foreign  regions. 

If  we  divide  France  into  east  and  west  halves  along 
the  meridian  of  Paris  we  find  nearly  three  persons  of 
note  born  in  the  east  half  to  two  in  the  west  half.  If 
we  cut  France  into  north  and  south  halves  along  a  line 
drawn  a  httle  to  the  south  of  Bourges  we  have,  exclud- 
ing Paris,  four  persons  of  note  born  in  the  north  half 
to  three  in  the  south  half. 

Remarking  next  the  merits  of  the  French  provinces 
with  respect  to  their  production  of  noted  people  as  com- 
pared with  their  areas,  we  observe  that,  in  the  leading 
group.  He  de  France,  Lyonnais,  Flanders  and  then 
Artois  lead  in  this  order.  The  city  of  Lyons  brings  up 
Lyonnais.  (For  lucidity  we  are  using  the  old-time 
historic  nomenclature  of  the  provinces.)  The  marked 
inferiority  of  Picardy  to  her  surrounding  sisters  should 
be  remarked  and  appears  by  no  means  sufficiently  ex- 
plained by  the  fact  that  her  capital,  Amiens,  was  com- 
paratively small.  Prov^ence  is  quite  ahead  of  Langue- 
doc,  Normandy  of  course  outranks  Brittany,  and  Bur- 
gundy leads  Champagne.  The  provinces  that  have  a 
good  showing  while  containing  not  one  of  the  leading 
cities  of  France  are  notably  Artois,  followed  by  Angou- 
mois. 


Production  of  Noted  Persons  in  France  191 

Passing  now  from  the  test  of  area  to  that  of  popula- 
tion we  find,  noting  first  the  grand  divisions,  that  the 
Southeast  is  the  most  fertile  in  noteworthy  people 
in  proportion  to  Its  population.  The  Southeast  gives 
one  name  out  of  every  block  of  22,000  inhabitants. 
Then  come  the  Northeast,  then  the  North,  then  the 
East.  Comparing  the  results  which  we  find  here  with 
those  corresponding  under  the  test  by  area,  we  remark 
that  the  Northeast  occupies  the  second  place  in  both 
cases,  the  first  being  held  by  the  North  as  to  area  and 
by  the  Southeast  as  to  population.  The  East  and  the 
North  are,  in  each  instance,  among  the  first  four.  The 
West  is  last  under  both  tests.  This,  we  may  note  here, 
is  true  also  with  respect  to  the  provinces.  That  is  to 
say,  the  provinces  and  grand  divisions  most  prolific  of 
noted  persons  in  proportion  to  area  are  most  prolific  in 
proportion  to  population.  The  exceptions,  however, 
appear  to  be  of  a  decided  nature.  As  a  rule,  the  test  by 
area  is,  I  find,  a  very  fair  guide  for  the  test  by  popula- 
tion. 

One  notices  that  the  east  half  of  France  occupies  the 
first  rank  and  that  it  produces  one  noted  person  per 
25,000  inhabitants.  The  north  half  of  France  ranks 
second  as  to  area  and  fourth  as  to  population.  We 
are  struck  by  this  confirmation  of  the  fact  that  the  land 
of  the  French  is  distinctly  a  continental  country.  While 
France  is  oceanic  by  her  geographical  situation  and 
partly  Mediterranean  by  her  history,  she  appears  in- 
land In  geographical  location  and  In  the  annals  of  her 
intellectual  productivity.  The  region  lying  in  a  gen- 
eral way  toward  Germany  surpasses,  notwithstanding 


192       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

its  Champagne  "pouilleuse,"  the  region  lying  toward 
Italy  and  forming  the  great  northwestern  exit-area  of 
the   Roman  civilization. 

The  north  half  of  France,  with  its  cereals  and  rich 
diversity  of  products,  outranks  the  south  half  with  its 
wealth  of  vineyards.  The  Alsatians,  the  Lorraines, 
the  Franks,  lead  the  Normans,  the  Celts,  the  Meri- 
dionaux.  Brachycephaly  triumphs  here  over  dolicho- 
cephaly,  and  the  Teutonic  over  the  "Latin."  The  con- 
tinental east  half  of  France,  where  the  summers  are  the 
hottest  and  the  winters  are  coldest,  is  both  actually  and 
relatively  more  prolific  in  noted  persons  than  the  mari- 
time west  half  where  the  Gulf  Stream  diffuses  a  warm 
and  moist  equableness.  The  extremes  of  heat  and 
cold  are  most  marked  in  the  Northeast,  which  rivals 
even  the  He  de  France  in  bearing  noteworthy  sons. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  Northeast  are  described  as 
"prompt  to  anger  and  to  enterprise."  The  Southeast 
is  famous  for  its  violent  caprices  of  atmosphere  and  its 
impetuous  torrents,  whence  the  passionate  temperament 
of  its  people  and  their  "brusque  returns  to  indolence 
and  languor."  This  invites  the  assumption  that  the 
Northeast,  the  Southeast  and  the  Biscayan  land,  with 
its  Gascons,  contribute  the  element  of  nervous  energy 
and  lightly  explosive  irritableness  to  French  life,  char- 
acter and  history. 

The  counteracting  element  of  conservativeness, 
which  is,  in  some  phases,  sheer  backwardness  and,  in 
others,  clever  thrift  and  admirable  prudence,  must  be 
looked  for  in  the  central  plateau  (the  "negative  pole" 
of  France)  ;  and  in  the  land  of  the  dreamy,  progress- 


Production  of  Noted  Persons  in  France  193 

shunning  Breton;  and  also  in  the  province  of  the  slow, 
scrutinous  Norman  where  the  climate  is  moderate,  the 
features  of  the  earth's  surface  are  effaced  into  a  com- 
parative commonplaceness,  and  the  streams  have  a 
thick,  flat  flow.  And  it  is,  indeed,  a  neat  coincidence 
that  the  French  race,  which  is  distinguished  by  its 
genius  for  symmetry  and  ordonnance  and  for  a  pro- 
nounced sense  of  precise  form,  should  dwell  in  a  land 
possessing  such  a  graceful  equilibrium  and  compact  ele- 
gance of  general  outline. 

If  we  submit  the  French  provinces  to  the  test  of 
population  (always  excluding  Paris  when  we  speak  of 
He  de  France),  we  see  He  de  France  leading,  then 
Provence,  Touraine  and  Burgundy  in  this  order.  Tou- 
raine,  which  has  played  a  modest  role  in  our  other  lists, 
is  well  to  the  fore  here,  with  Picardy  always  lingering 
in  the  rear.  Flanders  and  Normandy  appear  far  from 
the  top.  Provence,  which  is  decidedly  in  advance  of 
Languedoc,  still  holds  rank  among  the  leading  provin- 
ces. Champagne  presents  her  usual  weak  record.  As 
in  the  test  by  area,  the  provinces  cutting  the  poorest 
figure  here  lie  for  the  most  part  in  the  center  and  west. 

Measuring  these  results  with  those  corresponding 
under  the  area  test,  one  sees  He  de  France  at  the  head 
of  both  lists.  But  I  discover  that  Alsace  was  a  precious 
bit  of  territory  to  France  in  the  way  of  bearing  men 
of  note.  That  Lorraine  did  not  match  her  appears  ex- 
plained by  the  fact  that  the  eastern-southeastern  slope 
of  the  Vosges  is  much  milder  and  more  fertile  than  the 
northwestern. 

If  Normandy  holds  a  somewhat  disappointing  posi- 


194       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

tion,  being  excelled  by  seven  provinces  in  the  test  of 
area  and  by  sixteen  in  the  test  of  population,  what  shall 
be  said  of  Picardy's  very  low  rank?  For  we  read  of 
the  Picardians:  "A  powerful  race,  quick  of  thought  and 
yet  tenacious  and  persevering,  they  unite  the  qualities 
of  the  Meridionaux  with  those  of  the  people  of  the 
north."  Languedoc,  whose  "towns  do  not  wish  to  be 
ports,"  stands  as  the  average  between  the  highest  and 
lowest,  being  easily  outmatched  by  her  maritime  sister, 
Provence.  Burgundy,  with  her  wines  which  have  such 
a  mysteriously  strong  effect  on  the  brain,  leads  the 
region  of  the  Bordeaux  wines;  and  Normandy,  with 
her  cider,  yields  precedence  to  both.  The  sparkle  and 
exhilaration  of  champange  do  not  save  its  "barren" 
home — Champagne — from  comparative  insignificance; 
and  we  also  find  Poitou,  famous  for  its  jackasses,  and 
the  Amorican  peninsula  well  toward  the  foot  of  the 
row. 

I  learn  from  our  compilations  that  the  population 
shifted  very  perceptibly  from  country  to  city.  And, 
indeed,  it  is  confidently  said  that  in  a  reasonably  near 
future  the  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  France  will  be 
urban — that  the  peasant  will  give  way  before  the  arti- 
san, the  workman  and  the  commercial  folk.  One  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  years  ago  the  French  population 
was  eminently  rural  or  agricultural:  the  peasant  was 
"maitre  de  France."  It  has  been  shown  that  toward 
1830  only  about  one-fourth  of  the  inhabitants  of 
France  dwelt  in  cities  or  towns  having  over  2,000 
souls.  Nevertheless,  it  is  safe  to  estimate  that  this 
one-fourth — namely,  the  urban  population — contribu- 


Production  of  Noted  Persons  in  France  195 

ted  about  50  per  cent  of  the  noted  persons  of  France, 
since  Paris  alone  furnished  25  per  cent.  In  other 
words,  a  French  person  stood  in  the  nineteenth  century 
a  much  better  chance  of  becoming  noteworthy  if  born 
in  a  city  or  town  than  if  born  in  the  country  or  in  a 
village. 

Now  we  may  take  our  1424  noteworthy  people 
we  started  out  with  and  arrange  them  according  to 
their  callings. 

About  one-fourth  of  the  97  poets  whom  we  find 
among  our  list  hail  from  Paris.  After  Paris,  the 
southern  provinces  appear  to  be  richest  in  versifiers. 

Of  the  78  writers  of  fiction,  Paris  claims  about 
one-third.  lie  de  France  and  Languedoc  come  next 
with  seven  each,  and  then  Brittany  with  five. 

Of  the  57  playwrights,  Paris  furnishes  three-fifths, 
the  rest  being  thoroughly  scattered. 

Of  the  479  "litterateurs,"  Paris  has  nearly  one- 
fourth,  and  Normandy  and  Guienne  excel  the  other 
provinces. 

Of  the  174  journalists,  Paris  has  about  two-ninths, 
and  Guienne  and  Normandy  head  the  provinces. 

Of  the  70  historians,  Paris  has  yielded  about  one- 
third. 

Of  the  28  savants,  Paris  has  4,  being  behind  Brit- 
tany with  5. 

Of  the  58  jurisprudents,  Paris  gives  about  one-sixth 
and  is  closely  pushed  by  her  own  province,  He  de 
France. 

Of  the  68  politlcists,  Paris  has  about  two-sevenths 
and  Brittany  comes  first  among  the  provinces. 


196       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Of  the  265  scientists,  Paris  furnishes  about  30  per 
cent  while  Guienne  and  Normandy  are  at  the  top  of 
the  list  of  the  country  commonwealths. 

Of  the  50  theologians,  Paris  is  credited  with  one- 
tenth,  being  equaled  by  Guienne  and  by  Languedoc. 

Guienne,  Languedoc  and  Provence — the  three  south- 
ern sisters — outrival  any  other  three  provinces  in 
poetry  and  hold  their  own  as  to  "litterateurs"  and 
scientists,  while  they  are  overmatched  by  the  North  in 
history  and  are  absolutely  devoid  of  savants.  Nor- 
mandy, in  this  table,  does  not  seem  to  justify  her  repu- 
tation for  litigiousness,  for  she  does  not  lead  her 
sisters  in  jurisprudents. 

And  we  may  close  our  list  of  comparisons  by  yoking 
Brittany  and  Guienne  together  and  finding  the  former 
in  advance  in  savants  and  writers  of  fiction,  while 
dragging  wofully  behind  in  "litterateurs,"  journalists 
and  scientists. 


vii.    The  Gray  and  Gay  Race 


THE  GRAY  AND  GAY  RACE 

THE  French  are  a  gray  people  who  live  in  a 
gray  metropolis  and  in  a  gray  country.  Paris 
lies  in  a  limestone  region  and  is  built  of  gray 
stone.  A  large  part  of  the  city  is  undermined  by 
ancient  quarries.  Its  roofs,  pavements,  trottoirs  and 
bridges  are  gray.  The  absence  of  smoke  and  dirt  per- 
mits time  to  deepen  leisurely  the  color  of  the  stone  and 
to  transform  the  city  into  a  mosaic  of  gray.  Old 
shades  are  being  replaced  constantly  by  new  hues 
which,  in  their  turn,  ripen  with  age.  The  interior  ef- 
fect of  Notre  Dame  with  its  great  ashen-colored  win- 
dows, and  of  the  Invalides  where  Napoleon  lies,  is 
characteristically  gray. 

The  tints  of  the  Seine  vary  from  a  grayish  green  to 
a  deep  steel  gray.  French  soils  and  notably  French 
skies  are  griseous.  All  about  one  in  France  is  "this 
air  that  is  never  blue,"  as  Gautier  described  it.  French 
towns  and  villages  are  grizzled.  Their  buildings  are 
either  of  gray  stone  or  are  plastered  over,  and  their 
roofs  are  usually  a  faded  brown.  This  color  of  town 
and  village  seems  to  change  as  soon  as  the  Belgian 
frontier  is  crossed.  French  verdure  and  landscapes 
possess  a  reseda,  and  the  French  cemeteries  are  wholly 
gray. 

Gray  Paris  and  gray  northern  France  are  as  con- 

199 


200       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

colorous  as  Nature  can  well  permit  in  a  fertile  and 
temperate  latitude.  Thus  the  fact  may  be  accounted 
for  that,  as  a  rule,  the  eyes  of  Parisians  and  their  gar- 
ments are  gray  or  grayish.  The  general  appearance 
of  French  peasants  is  griseous.  And  there  are  propor- 
tionally more  gray  horses  in  northern  France  than  in 
other  countries.  It  is  the  home  of  the  gray  Norman 
thoroughbred. 

This  grayness  of  the  French  suggests  two  traits  or 
qualities  of  the  race: 

First — Gray  is  the  color  of  moderation.  And  are 
not  the  French  the  most  prudent  and  moderate  of  all 
the  great  modern  peoples?  A  Parisian  is  conservative 
to  a  fault.  He  does  not  overwork  or  overplay.  He  is 
not  apt  to  fail  to  do  to-day  what  to-morrow  he  will 
feel  most  contented  to  have  done.  Easily  satisfied,  he 
needs  little  to  amuse  him.  The  Parisians  are,  as  Renan 
says  of  the  Greeks,  cheerfully  philosophical  and  sober 
in  their  pleasures.  In  testimony  of  this,  the  careful 
observer  will  remark  that  their  faces  seem  creditably 
free  from  indications  of  excessive  indulgence. 

Second — Gray,  the  color  of  brain  matter,  is  the  color 
of  mentality.  That  the  gray  Parisian  is  preeminently 
sane  would  thus  appear  inevitable;  hence  his  moderate- 
ness. He  worships  le  bon  sens — the  head.  Acquiring 
and  enjoying  largely  through  the  medium  of  the  brain, 
he  leads  an  active  mental  life.  French  art  and  litera- 
ture are,  above  all  things,  rational.  What  a  French- 
man seizes  in  a  song  or  a  picture  is  especially  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words,  the  subject,  the  idea — the  sense  be- 


The  Gray  and  Gay  Race         201 

fore  the  passion  or  illusion.  French  music  in  the  main 
produces  a  kind  of  cerebral  pleasure.  It  is  occasion- 
ally exquisite  and  nearly  always  refined  and  chaste. 
Even  the  Parisian  ballet  music,  a  realm  where  one 
would  expect  to  find  reveling  that  astonishing  licentious- 
ness which  Teutonic  races  impute  to  the  French,  is 
almost  purely  mental  in  its  charm  and  signally  free 
from  sensual  taint. 

Before  the  Romantic  epoch  in  France  the  complex- 
ion of  French  literature  was  gray,  as  Gautier  re- 
marked; and  he  wielded  a  vigorous  hand  in  changing 
this  dominant  hue  into  red  at  the  battle  of  Hernani. 
But  in  our  day  the  sanglant  scarlets  of  the  Romantic 
triumph — colorations  so  especially  reflected  across  the 
prisms  of  the  glorious  Hugo  and  de  Lisle — are  neu- 
tralizing and  masking  themselves  gradually  into  ma- 
turer  tints,  and  compromising  on  the  national  griseous. 

The  favorite  color  in  the  French  schools  of  painting 
is  gray  or,  to  speak  paradoxically,  the  absence  of  color. 
Gray  was  its  general  tone  before  the  time  of  the 
Romanticists  who  introduced,  in  Paris,  variety  of  hue 
as  appropriate  of  emotion.  Yet  the  grandiose  Roman- 
tic school  was  not  born  of  France.  While  it  is  true  that 
gray  cannot  always  be  said  to  prevail  at  the  Champs- 
Elysees  or  in  any  of  the  Independent  salons,  still  the 
color  of  French  canvases,  as  the  violent  Romantic  in- 
fluence fades  away,  will  become  more  and  more  mental- 
ized  and  subdued  and  be  characterized  by  a  grayish 
disposition. 

For,  to  the  French,  gray  is  the  hue  of  truth,  ideality 


202       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

and  of  life  Itself.  Their  devotion  to  form  and  ordon- 
nance  before  color  and  romantic  effects  is  a  gray,  and 
hence  a  mental,  trait. 

Inquiring  into  the  original  significance  of  the  word 
gray,  we  find  that  it  comes  mainly  from  expressions 
meaning  old — "that  which  has  white  hair" — and  that 
it  generally  designates  old  age.  And,  indeed,  the  gray 
French  are  not  to  be  distinguished  as  a  race  of  young 
people.  There  is  in  France  relatively  little  youth  that 
is  young  in  years.  French  lads  work  hard  and  steadily. 
As  a  result  they  have  their  baccalaureate  at  the  Sor- 
bonne  at  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  it  corresponds  to 
the  degree  which  the  average  English  and  American 
collegiate  earns  at  twenty-one.  French  boys  do  not 
possess  that  wealth  of  juvenile  literature,  sport  and 
liberty  which  makes  youth  in  the  United  States  so  long 
and  pleasant.  They  have  comparatively  little  time  in 
which  to  be  really  young. 

On  the  other  hand,  elderly  Frenchmen,  though  they 
rarely  regret  their  boyhood  and  seldom  refer  to  it 
with  pleasure,  are  inclined  to  wear  youthful  cuts  of 
clothes  and  gay  cravats  and  to  insist  on  loving  the 
world.  How  true  were  Flaubert's  words  when  he 
described  the  men  at  the  marquis's  ball  which  Madame 
Bovary  attended!  "Those  who  were  beginning  to 
grow  old  had  a  juvenile  air,  while  something  of  matur- 
ity was  seen  on  the  faces  of  the  younger  men."  Ma- 
ture and  aged  Parisian  ladies  are  famous  for  their  gay 
hats,  lively  ribbons  and  daring  toilets,  yet  their  maiden 
daughters  are  garbed  in  sober  stuffs.  French  girls  are 
driven  by  urgent  tasks  and  have  little  company  save 


The  Gray  and  Gay  Race         203 

that  of  their  elders.  They  learn  what  they  know  of 
youth  after  marriage.  Michelet  expressed  it  aptly 
when  he  said:  "One  is  not  born  young  in  France  but 
one  becomes  young." 

The  idea  of  the  inexistence  of  young  youth  in  the 
land  of  the  Seine  was  first  distinctly  suggested  to  me 
by  the  eighteenth  century  portraits  of  young  persons 
in  the  Louvre.  Gray  is  the  predominant  color  in  these 
paintings.  Maidens  are  almost  invariably  represented 
in  griseous  costumes  with  whitish  head-dresses  and  as 
having  gray  flesh.  The  most  noted  among  these  can- 
vases are  Greuze's  pictures  of  girls  with  their  gray- 
ish garments  and  complexions  and  their  dull,  faded 
blond  hair.  I  have  seen  their  types  among  the  French 
middle  classes. 

Gray  seems  to  have  become  the  characteristic  color 
of  the  French  costume  and  coiffure  about  the  com- 
mencement of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  was  then  that 
the  word  grisette  tripped  into  the  French  language. 
Of  significant  importance  in  that  epoch  was  the  fash- 
ion of  powdering  the  hair  so  that  it  had  a  gray  appear- 
ance. The  radical  sense  of  grizzled  (^mled)  is 
dusted  or  powdered  over,  and  this  meaning  would 
properly  come  from  gray  which  indicated  those  who 
have  white  hair. 

The  gray  mode  of  coiffure  was  partly  the  result  of 
the  fact  that  Louis  XIV,  in  his  last  years,  was  per- 
suaded to  wear  powdered  peruques  by  the  argument 
that  "the  use  of  powder  equalizes  all  ages  and  softens 
the  expression  of  the  face."  A  courtier  of  the  time 
said:  "Everybody  nowadays  wants  to  be  old  in  order 


204       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

to  be  sage."  In  1788  a  French  authority,  referring  to 
the  universal  use  of  powdered  coiffures,  wrote: 
"Powdered  hair,  while  being  convenient,  is  essential  to 
decorum  and  has  been  regarded  by  civilized  peoples 
as  of  the  first  necessity."  This  gray  fashion  for  the 
young  and  the  aged  prevailed  in  France  throughout 
the  eighteenth  century.  Youth  was  rendered  old — a 
French  trait  still  to-day. 

And  this  leads  affirmatively  to  the  question,  Are  not 
the  gray  French  in  reality  the  only  senescent  modern 
people  of  importance?  Their  unique  mental  life — 
mental  because  it  does  not  lose  itself  in  the  heart-ex- 
panding and  soul-stirring  enthusiasms  and  illusions  of 
young  youth,  since  there  is  little  of  that  in  France — 
associates  itself  naturally  with  senescence.  English 
observers,  in  attesting  the  old-headedness  of  their 
practical  neighbors  across  the  Channel,  appear  to 
prove  that  the  dominating  ambition  of  a  Frenchman  is 
to  possess  a  competency.  He  has  a  horror  of  having 
nothing  but  prospects — of  trusting  to  the  Future  and 
Providence.  French  love  affairs  and  marriages,  as 
every  one  knows,  are  prudently  controlled  by  money 
considerations.  These  customs,  as  well  as  most  if 
not  all  French  customs,  are  typical  of  old  age;  and 
consequently,  to  the  student  of  the  quaintly  pat  and 
fitting,  would  it  not  seem  proper  that  French  bank 
notes  should  have  a  grayish  cast? 

Another  evidence  of  the  senescence  (thus  ration- 
ally displayed)  of  the  French  is  the  fact  that  they  are 
not  only  smaller  in  stature  than  any  of  their  leading 
rivals  but  are  the  only  great  people  threatened  by  a 


The  Gray  and  Gay  Race        205 

decreasing  population.  The  causes  of  the  depopula- 
tion of  France  are  apparently  radical  and  irremediable 
because  they  arise  from  senescence. 

In  this  wise,  it  might  appear  to  the  pessimist  that 
the  French  have  passed  their  maturity  and  are  in  de- 
cay. If  we  are  to  assume  that  the  salient  apex  of  their 
civilization  was  the  age  of  Louis  XIV,  the  decline 
clearly  commenced  in  the  eighteenth  century — the  time 
when  gray  (the  mark  of  the  old)  began  to  be  the  char- 
acteristic color  of  the  French  people.  Rousseau's  cult 
of  the  "vert"  (green),  the  French  Revolution,  the 
genius  of  the  exotic  Napoleon,  and  the  imported  Ro- 
mantic school  with  its  red  corpuscles,  infused  new 
life  and  arrested  the  decay  of  France.  But  once  more, 
the  pessimist  may  argue,  it  is  face  to  face  with  its 
natural  and  courted  destiny — extinction.  This  destiny 
may  be  deferred  in  the  future  as  in  the  past  by  un- 
foreseen agencies  and  events.  In  any  case  the  decline 
of  the  French  will  be  very  gentle  and  slow,  and  their 
fate  will  in  no  wise  hinder  their  brilliant,  glorious  light 
from  shining  on  and  on  like  that  of  the  Greeks. 

It  is  natural  for  an  Anglo-American  to  ask.  Why 
then  are  the  old  and  gray  French  precisely  the  gayest 
of  peoples? — for  gray  does  not  suggest  gayety  to  us. 
Etymology  seems  to  answer  the  question.  Wedgwood 
treats  gay  and  gray  about  as  follows: — 

Originally  gay  and  gray  probably  came  from  words 
signifying  parti-colored — from  words  meaning  speck- 
led and  mottled.  Perhaps  the  true  origin  may  be 
found  in  the  analogy  by  which  expressions  of  concep- 
tions dependent  on  the  faculty  of  hearing  are  extended 


2o6       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

to  those  of  a  similar  character  dependent  on  sight. 
Thus  broken,  conspicuous  color  would  naturally  be 
taken  from  a  broken,  chattering,  gay  sound.  The  word 
signifying  liveliness  of  color  appears  to  have  been 
transferred  to  the  expression  of  liveliness  of  disposi- 
tion.— 

Was  it  quite  by  accident  that  the  gay  French  shop- 
girl and  sewing  girl  wore  gray  dresses  and  were  called 
grisettes — the  word  for  gray  being  gris?  And  is  not 
to  be  discovered  here  the  correct  explanation  of  the 
French  verb  se  griser,  to  get  tipsy?  It  is  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  this  expression  was  introduced  to  hit  off 
the  nervous,  noisy  state  of  a  tipsy  Frenchman,  and 
that  it  has  veritably  no  connection  with  the  German 
benebeln  which  typically  describes  the  placidly  be- 
clouded condition  of  an  inebriated  Teuton? 

Therefore,  for  the  very  reason  that  a  race  is  gray, 
it  should  be  gay — gayness  being  grayness  and  grayety 
being  gayety.  The  French  are  uniquely  represented 
by  these  two  traits.  Beranger  understood  this  as  if  by 
instinct  when  he  wrote  the  well-known  song,  "The  Gay 
Little  Gray  Man  of  Paris."  Our  Anglo-Saxon  race 
associates  gray  with  somberness,  lack-luster  infestiv- 
ity  and  the  gloom  of  advanced  years.  We  have  lost 
its  gay  signification  and  the  French  have  kept  it.  With 
them  gray  old  age  does  not  make  itself  felt  as  forlorn 
or  sad.  On  the  contrary,  it  assumes  a  wonderful 
sprightliness.  The  grandparents  are  apt  to  be  the 
most  vivacious  members  of  Parisian  families.  Vivacity 
is  the  French  interpretation  of  second  childhood.  They 
believe  that  gayety  is  the  natural,  happy  lot  of  all  old 


The  Gray  and  Gay  Race         207 

people  who  have  lived  temperately  and  well.  They 
are  far  from  sharing  those  Puritan  penances  which  re- 
sign the  last  years  of  life  to  the  mournful  shadows  of 
the  tomb. 

And  it  may  seem  suggestive  thus  to  note  how  ety- 
mology, with  its  roots  deep  in  the  hoary  past,  appears 
to  nod  its  venerable  branches  in  approval  of  the  cheer- 
ful and  profound  lesson  which  the  gray  French  teach 
the  world,  namely  this :  Gayety  is  the  proper  attribute 
of  old  age  as  well  as  of  practical,  moderate  and  mental 
living. 


PROFILES 


i.    Jules  Claretie 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Jules  Claretie  was  born  at  Limoges  in  1840  and  died  in 
1913.  He  was  one  of  the  most  popular  Frenchmen  of  his  time. 
He  became  an  ardent  Republican,  unlike  many  other  French 
writers  who  dated  from  the  Second  Empire.  He  was  an  agree- 
able talker  and  indefatigably  industrious.  He  held  the  position 
of  Administrateur-General  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  from  1885. 


JULES  CLARETIE 

JULES  CLARETIE  was  often  to  be  seen  walking 
rapidly  up  the  Avenue  de  I'Opera,  with  his  kindly, 
open,  humanitarian,  bearded  countenance  a  little 
upturned,  typical  of  his  frank,  glad-handed,  aspiring 
nature.  One  observed  a  figure  in  the  usual  French- 
man's modest,  carelessly  fitting  habit,  the  ends  of  the 
overcoat  sagging  down,  and  the  inevitable  umbrella 
and  neckcloth.  A  medium  sized  man,  with  a  slight 
literary  stoop. 

To  wait  for  a  word  with  him  in  the  green  room  of 
the  Fran?ais  or  on  its  private  staircase  where  one 
quails  under  the  battery  of  shining,  challenging  glances 
from  those  fine-spun,  high-wrought  actresses  lying 
in  wait  to  waylay  the  Administrator  for  a  better  role, 
was  to  tarry  for  a  man  ever  ready  and  apparently  anx- 
ious to  see  you.  But  with  no  time.  "Won't  you 
kindly  write  and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you?"  Thus 
would  come  at  length  his  friendly  response  and  re- 
quest. 

In  that  dramatic  household  you  realized  somewhat 
the  daily  hardships  he  underwent  with  so  much  benev- 
olence during  those  twenty-eight  years  of  service  at  the 
hardest  post  of  its  kind  in  the  world.  What  a  marvel 
to  maneuver  that  highly  spiced  company  of  esthetes  and 
exquisites — players  and  coquettes — charming,  spoiled 

211 


212       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

children  of  genius  and  talent — perfumed  with  vanity, 
keyed-up  in  delicately  strained  tensions,  intertwined  in 
fine  nets  of  intrigue,  and  living  in  daily  intimacy  on  one 
another's  nerves! 

Quite  representative  of  the  best  moral  elements  of 
France  Claretie  proved,  however,  a  master  in  man- 
aging that  befluttered  dovecote  of  petticoats.  And  it 
was  the  Comedie  too  in  one  of  its  most  valued  and 
varied  epochs.  He  wrote,  it  is  true,  with  Henry  Cain 
"la  Navarraise"  for  Massenet.  But  there  was  in  his 
make-up  neither  lyrisme  nor  much  of  that  clinging, 
feverish  color  of  sexual  grace  which  appeals  in  a  great 
deal  of  Massenet's  music. 

When  traveling,  Claretie  remained  thoroughly 
French — a  racial  trait  in  French  tourists.  His  ex- 
cursions into  Germany  did  not  prevent  this  gracious 
man  from  maintaining  a  distinctly  anti-German  atti- 
tude in  his  history  called  "La  guerre  nationale."  In 
his  novel  "I'Americaine"  (1892),  one  fails  to  find 
anything  truly  American  but  its  subject — divorce.  And 
that  was  its  real  topic  and  excuse.  For  the  Parisians 
at  first  chided  us  and  then  at  length  blessed  us^for  that 
important  custom  extended  into  latter-day  France. 

Notwithstanding  Claretie's  twenty  novels,  his  histor- 
ies, his  uncounted  volumes  of  critical  comment  and 
appreciation  on  Paris  life,  art  and  everything  else,  an 
evolutionary  Brunetiere  would  say  it  was  natural  that 
Claretie's  best  creation  should  be  Brichanteau,  Come- 
dian. It  is  apparently  the  only  permanent  and  living 
thing  that  emerges  from  his  cloud  of  writings. 

Brichanteau,  the  gay,  facile  actor  with  a  heart,  is 


Jules  Claretie  213 

perhaps  Claretie  himself  in  the  form  of  a  player. 
Acted  by  the  unduplicated  De  Feraudy,  then  flattened 
out  to  fit  the  comedie  de  salon  and  "easy  to  play"  class, 
Brichanteau,  matured  actor  of  a  little  theater,  suc- 
ceeding in  his  own  failure,  spirituel,  diverting,  rolling 
his  r's  like  a  performer  of  the  banlieu — Brichanteau 
lives  while  Claretie  dies. 

To  compare  this  figure  with  its  famous  prototype  in 
Daudet's  Delobelle,  born  some  twenty-two  years  be- 
fore, is  to  see  the  one  as  on  the  stage  itself  and  the 
other  as  in  the  pages  of  a  real  living  novel.  Likely 
Delobelle  will  always  be  the  greater.  For  Claretie, 
first  of  all  and  by  profession  a  journalist,  was,  one  may 
say,  ever  a  journalist.  He  exemplified  the  touch-and-go 
diffuseness  and  impermanency  of  the  daily  newspaper. 
Daudet  was  pure  literature,  looking  up  toward  the 
supreme  and  the  enduring,  and  finishing  everything 
down  to  the  smallest  of  nervous  details.  Claretie 
hastened  through  rather  easily,  hitting  the  obvious 
spots  of  actuality. 

Born  in  westerly  mid-France  in  the  same  year  as 
Daudet  (1840),  he  arrived  on  the  scene  in  Paris  when 
about  eleven.  He  gradually  joined  with  the  Vacquerie 
set  of  high-minded,  upright  men — belated  Romantics 
who  did  not  need  to  reform.  They  were  to  help  over- 
throw the  dissipated  Empire  and  to  live  for  the  more 
righteous  Republic — agnostic  and  Protestant.  And  so 
he  became  a  journalist  at  twenty-one,  then  editor, 
writer  of  almost  forgotten  plays  that  ran  a  hundred 
nights,  a  universal  commentator,  breathing  only  the  air 
from  day  to  day.    His  books  reflect  a  remarkably  full 


214       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

picture  of  his  time.  Every  new  idea,  movement,  emo- 
tion, thrill  of  his  epoch  appear  touched  up  in  his 
thousands  of  columns. 

It  is  in  his  popular  "La  Vie  a  Paris,"  more  piquant 
than  aggressive,  that  Claretie  reveals  himself  ade- 
quately as  a  quotidian  chronicler.  But  compare  the 
more  distinguished  and  durable  "Vie  litteraire"  of 
Anatole  France,  which  easily  discovers  to  view  a  supe- 
rior man  of  books,  overshadowing  the  transient  man 
of  journalism  in  Claretie! 

He  was  too  good-hearted  to  be  a  great  talent  in  let- 
ters. A  man  of  literary  genius,  it  seems,  must  have 
something  mean  or  small  about  him.  Claretie  was 
never  mean  nor  small.  He  had  the  willing  nature  of  a 
philanthropist,  a  very  true  love  of  liberty,  a  frankly 
welcome  soul.  And  he  was  respected  as  he  was  be- 
loved— a  person  in  whom  the  difficult  public  conscience 
of  Paris  could  always  at  length  repose  in  confidence. 
Ever  hopeful,  confiding,  looking  for  the  best  in  almost 
all  things,  he  remained  to  the  last  a  felicitous  figure, 
ready,  conciliatory,  practical.  Everybody's  assistant 
and  contributor,  he  survived  the  writing  of  numerous 
prefaces  for  friends  and  the  keeping  track  of  his  own 
pseudonyms. 

One  may  crudely  say  that  on  the  road  from  Roman- 
ticism Claretie  became  an  Impressionist.  He  first  ap- 
peared in  1861  before  life  and  letters  in  the  presence 
of  death  at  the  funeral  of  the  young  and  wasted  Mur- 
ger.  It  was  the  end  of  the  old  Boheme  with  its  wan, 
tubercular  loves.  But  Bohemia  never  had  any  attrac- 
tion for  Claretie.     He  was  as  far  from  it  literarily 


Jules  Claretie  215 

in  his  wholesomeness  of  nature  as  he  was  politically 
from  the  regime  of  the  debauched  Morny.  Claretie's 
idea  of  Bohemia  was  that  it  lacked  passion.  He  said 
that  Bohemia  "is  not  the  love  of  liberty — it  is  only 
the  caprice  of  liberty." 

To  be  an  Impressionist,  however,  was  not  to  be  a 
psychologist,  in  his  case.  He  readily  passed  by  the 
difficult  descents  and  ascents  of  the  human  soul,  leav- 
ing them  to  younger  men  like  Anatole  France,  Bour- 
get,  Barres,  with  their  more  hesitating  inclination  to 
look  closely  about. 

Claretie  added  nothing  to  liberty,  fashions  or  style. 
Accordingly,  perhaps,  he  was  able  to  maintain  at  the 
Comedie  Frangalse,  as  much  as  humanly  possible,  a 
just  balance  between  the  Classic  and  Romantic  and  be- 
tween nearly  all  the  old  and  nearly  all  the  new.  To 
serve  well  the  notional  public,  the  ever-changing  Gov- 
ernment Ministries,  the  socletalres,  the  saints  and  the 
devil,  was  the  result  of  a  diplomatic  acrobatism  which 
he  exhibited  with  an  approved  skill  of  equilibrium.  It 
was  his  great  feat  to  have  ridden  with  victory  through 
all  the  wars  that  swept  across  his  reign,  and  where 
he  always  won  out  with  his  supremely  good  tact  and 
good  will. 

Such  a  career  as  an  officer  of  the  nation,  a  functional 
administrator  for  half  the  span  of  a  life  time,  would 
have  altogether  killed  the  writer  in  less  of  an  adapt- 
able, industrious  and  affable  litterateur.  And  to  his 
praise  again  be  it  said  that  such  a  successfully  duplex 
example  is  to  be  found  at  no  time  in  the  past  among 
his  distinguished  predecessors  in  the  rue  Richelieu. 


ii.    Frangois  Coppee 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

pRANgois  CoppEE  was  born  in  Paris  in  1842  and  lived  to  the 
age  of  66.  Though  never  strong  physically,  he  produced  many 
plays  and  poems.  He  was  attached  for  a  while  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg and  the  Theatre  Frangais  libraries,  and  became  a  member 
of  the  Academy  in  1884.  He  was  unmarried,  an  active  Catholic 
and  extremely  likable.  More  than  one  of  his  dramas  caused 
disturbances  at  the  theater.  Only  his  stories  are  read  in  America. 
They  have  a  certain  popularity  but  are  quite  pale  beside  those  of 
his  contemporary  Maupassant. 


FRANgOIS  COPPEE 

THE  death  of  Francois  Coppee  recalled  a  man 
always  with  something  white  around  his 
throat  and  always  ailing.  Whether  he  was  in 
his  library  or  passing  down  the  street,  the  impression 
of  his  illness  was  borne  in  upon  one. 

He  was  accustomed  to  go  along  the  pavement  ab- 
sorbed, stoop-shouldered,  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
frequently  throwing  them  out  and  up  in  earnest  Gallic 
declamation.  At  home  he  declaimed — confidingly 
proclaimed.  In  this  he  seemed  a  pendant  to  Sardou, 
who,  likewise  a  man  of  the  theater,  was  a  great  de- 
claimer  in  his  everyday  life. 

I  often  thought  of  Sardou  as  a  millionaire,  dwelling 
up  toward  the  high,  wealthy  incline  of  northern  Paris, 
powerful  and  with  a  strong  fighting  hold  on  existence 
amid  his  costly  tapestries  and  antiques.  And  then  of 
Coppee,  living  humbly  and  unwell,  away  down  on  the 
plain  of  southern  Paris,  at  the  end  of  the  indigent  art 
quarter.  Fortunately,  however,  his  prolific  pen,  in  his 
later  days,  brought  him  plenty. 

He  occupied  for  years,  with  his  sister,  a  modest  one- 
story  house  in  a  lonesome  street.  You  entered  a  yard 
where  the  surroundings  gave  little  intimation  of  the 
near  presence  of  one  of  the  best-known  litterateurs  of 
France.     Like  Sardou,  Coppee  was  extremely  friendly 

219 


220       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

in  his  home.  He  welcomed  every  one,  was  interested 
in  everything.  He  talked  and  moved  restlessly  about 
in  a  favorite  red  smoking  jacket  which  recalled  the 
famous  red  coat  of  the  Romantic  Gautier.  There  were 
cats  (he  was  fond  of  them),  cigarettes  and  abundant 
examples  of  the  latest  forceful  slang. 

In  country  inns  Coppee  was  sometimes  taken  to  be  a 
commercial  traveler.  For  he  idled  about,  smoked,  and 
told  stories  with  every  one.  A  sample  of  his  popular 
kind  of  fun-making  was  his  account  of  his  laundress 
who  called  upon  him  one  evening  and  finding  him 
absent,  left  this  line:  Monsieur,  Je  suis  Venus  avec 
le  linge. 

In  his  first  poems  and  tales  he  reflected  the  life  of 
the  common  people  living  along  the  southern  edges 
of  the  Latin  and  art  quarters  of  Paris.  His  volume 
"Les  Humbles"  made  him  known  as  the  poet  of  the 
Humble.  His  verse  was  simple  in  effect,  like  his 
stories.  It  was  written  for  plain  people,  and  no  other 
writer  was  then  more  widely  read  and  beloved  by  the 
general  French  public. 

But  there  appears,  also,  in  his  output  an  aristocratic 
strain  or  association,  evidencing  his  cultivation  of  the 
nobility.  Counts  and  marquises  were  fondled  with  an 
admiration  which  did  not  seem  to  conflict  with  his 
love  and  cult  of  the  Humble. 

He  was  avowedly  Catholic.  He  became  latterly  one 
of  the  leading  defenders  of  the  church  in  its  troublous 
days  in  France.  He  was  anti-Republican,  anti-Dreyfus. 
He  stood  against  all  that  is  making  French  history  and 
progress.     He  was  practically  opposed  to  the  larger 


Frangois  Coppee  221 

and  Republican  liberties  and  opportunities  of  those 
selfsame  humble  classes  whose  virtues  he  sang  of  so 
tenderly,  so  compassionately. 

This  conflicting  attitude  or  development  appears 
similar  in  a  way  to  Brunetiere's.  For  Brunetiere  grew 
up  as  a  revolutionary,  scientific,  intellectual  agnostic 
and  evolutionist.  Then  he  suddenly  went  over  to  the 
Catholic  church,  becoming  prominently  identified  as  a 
worshiper  of  tradition,  of  conservatism,  of  sanctified 
authority,  always  harking  back,  to  the  royalist,  aristo- 
cratic centuries. 

It  is  strange  that  though  the  name  of  Coppee  was 
among  the  most  retentissants — well-known — names  in 
literary  France,  there  exist  two  mistaken  impressions 
about  him.  One  is  that  he  was  a  great  poet  and  great- 
est as  a  poet.  He  was  in  fact,  as  indicated  above,  es- 
sentially light,  weak,  fragile,  not  only  as  a  story  writer 
but  as  a  versifier  (except  in  so  far  as  his  plays  are 
verse).  He  approached  neither  Verlaine  nor  Mau- 
passant. He  was  successful,  but  he  discovered  or  felt 
nothing  very  new  or  different. 

Far  more  important  was  he  as  a  dramatist.  He 
wrote  effective  and  most  admirable  stage  pieces,  always 
in  verse  and  lyrical  by  nature.  "Le  Passant"  and  oth- 
ers are  little  classics.  His  best  drama  is  "Pour  la 
Couronne."  His  plays  are  of  a  more  finished  Roman- 
ticism than  Hugo's.  They  were  companions,  in  a 
sense,  of  Richepin's  noble,  sonorous  dramas  in  rime, 
but  more  feminine.  It  must  be  remembered,  however, 
that  Coppee,  ardent  in  his  views  on  many  public  ques- 
tions, created  at  times,  like  Sardou,  veritable  sensa- 


222       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

tions  on  the  boards  and  came  into  conflict  with  the 
political  authorities. 

The  other  mistaken  impression  about  Coppee  is  that 
he  was  really  a  Parnassian.  He  identified  himself  with 
the  Parnassians,  it  is  true,  and  stood  classed  with  them, 
yet  he  was  nothing  but  a  Romantic.  He  exhibited 
none  of  the  leading  Parnassian  attributes — hard,  im- 
peccable virtuosity,  adoration  of  impersonal  beauty, 
fondness  for  the  barbarous  Exotic.  On  the  contrary 
he  was  intimate,  personal,  sentimental,  emphatically 
emotional — all  Romantic  qualities.  He  was  a  descend- 
ant of  Hugo.  Even  his  cult  of  the  Humble  was  born 
direct  from  Hugo's  verse  and  prose. 

Coppee  possessed  neither  the  intellectuality,  the 
ultra-refined  sensibilities,  the  exclusive  distinction  nor 
philosophic  training  of  Sully  Prudhomme.  Nor  did 
he  have  anything  of  the  mystic  and  musical  mystery 
and  genius  of  Verlaine,  who  fathered  a  school  and 
whose  original  influence  is  fertile,  fructiferous  and  in- 
creasing. Nor  did  Coppee  display  any  of  the  glorious, 
unfeeling  brilliance  of  Leconte  de  Lisle. 

His  fame  will  not  grow.  His  plays,  nevertheless, 
will  remain  for  no  little  time  a  true  and  living  adorn- 
ment of  the  Paris  stage.  Unfortunately  they  will 
reach  no  other,  for  they  lose  all  in  translation. 

Coppee's  literary  product  is  characterized  by  amia- 
bility, smooth-toned  lyrtsme  and  expansive  generosity. 
A  winning,  popular,  beloved  figure,  he  appealed  in  his 
books  to  the  hearts  of  men  and  women.  He  softened 
mankind.  He  left  it  more  justly  human  through  his 
emotionalism  and  through  a  certain  simple  and  direct 
nobleness. 


iii.     Coquelin  the  Elder 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

CoQUELiN  THE  Elder,  the  most  celebrated  of  French  comedians 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  came  from  Boulogne.  He  died  in  1909 
at  the  age  of  68.  When  scarcely  more  than  twenty  he  was  in  the 
front  rank  of  players  at  the  Theatre  Franqais  and  was  called  to 
perform  before  the  emperor  and  empress.  Of  a  forceful  char- 
acter, he  finally  broke  with  the  national  theater  in  1886.  He  then 
began  organizing  dramatic  tours  and  reaped  fame  and  wealth  in 
all  European  countries.  His  appearances  in  America  are  well 
remembered. 


COQUELIN  THE  ELDER 

IT  is  by  comparison  that  Coquelin's  greatness  looms 
forth.  We  think  of  his  brother,  an  excellent  come- 
dian, prominent  in  the  second  rank.  But  he  faced 
in  the  direction  of  farce  while  Coquelin  the  Elder 
turned  always  to  elegance.  The  former  was  a  romp, 
a  clown,  with  his  loge  full  of  pictures  of  chanticleers  in 
honor  of  the  family  name;  with  his  unbuttoned  pan- 
tomine;  with  his  embodiments  of  the  common  idiocy  of 
humankind — the  Monsieurs  de  Pourceaugnac  and 
other  amiable  imbeciles  of  Moliere.  They  in  turn  and 
betimes  transform  the  fastidious  stage,  parquet  and 
galleries  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  into  a  lively  circus 
and  "ballet"  as  in  the  "Ceremonie,"  in  that  ancien  pays 
des  femmes  et  des  lavemens — that  ancient  land  of 
women  and  purgings. 

Or  take  the  case  of  M.  Got  as  a  different  compari- 
son. He  was  the  compeer  of  the  elder  Coquelin — a 
comedian  of  the  highest  genre  possible  to  officialdom 
in  France.  His  attainments  were  entirely  solid  and 
meritorious.  But  he  was  content  for  nearly  half  a 
century  to  travel  daily  back  and  forth  by  tram  or 
"hirondelle"  from  his  Passy  home  to  the  Comedie,  like 
the  most  inured  and  decorated  chef  de  bureau  of  the 
Government.  He  lacked  those  greater  gifts  which 
forced  his  friend  out  into  life  and  among  humanity  as 

225 


226       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

it  is,  and  his  name  is  little  known  away  from  Paris. 
One  of  the  familiar  jests  of  the  Coquelins  was  apropos 
of  their  official-ridden  country  where  "a  man  without 
decorations  is  like  a  woman  without  children." 

Coquelin  owed  his  eminence  in  large  part  to  a  rare 
quality  in  his  profession — personal  culture.  We  think 
of  him  as  a  cultivated,  talented  person  outside  his  art 
— one  not  always  and  forever  exemplifying  merely  the 
vis  comica.  He  could  paint  some;  he  was  an  intelli- 
gent connoisseur;  he  delivered  conferences;  he  wrote 
books,  critiques,  essays — one  on  that  most  sensitive, 
most  strictly  intellectual,  most  refined  of  all  French 
poets.  Sully  Prudhomme.  In  fact,  to  speak  of  Coque- 
lin's  love  and  esteem  for  the  poetry  and  Lucretian  phi- 
losophy of  Sully  Prudhomme,  is  to  signify  in  a  word 
how  sanely  mental,  delicately  sentimental,  finely 
grained  he  was.  And  yet  he  was  born  in  an  humble, 
ignorant  baker's  family,  in  the  northern  tip  of  France, 
without  advantages. 

He  was  certainly  unapproached,  the  master  come- 
dian of  his  time.  Societaire  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise 
at  twenty-three — unique  in  the  case  of  a  man — he 
truly  outgrew  its  brilliant  but  restricted  confines  in 
twenty  years,  and  expanded  over  into  the  tumultuous, 
ever-modern  realm  of  the  theaters  on  the  grand  boule- 
vards and  thence  into  the  vast  outer  world.  This  was 
because  he  possessed  the  larger  virtues  of  imagination, 
originality,  daring,  like  his  feminine  mate  Bernhardt. 
He  was  as  individualistic  as  he  could  be  in  a  nation 
where  the  ultimate  standard  is  the  impersonal. 

The  able  presentation  of  contrasting  views  by  Henry 


Coquelin  the  Elder  227 

Irving  and  by  him  in  their  discussion  of  the  final  ideal 
of  the  player's  art  correctly  denoted  the  profound,  phil- 
osophical difference  between  the  French  and  Anglo- 
Saxons  on  this  subject.  As  Irving  placed  the  indi- 
vidualism of  the  actor  above  his  part,  and  therefore 
above  the  play,  as  the  typical  English  (and  American) 
point  of  view,  so  Coquelin  extolled  his  own  racial  ideal 
of  the  impersonal :  the  French  conception  that  the 
role  should  be  greater  than  the  embodier.  And  it  is 
natural  to  say  that  our  emphasis  on  the  actor  accounts 
largely  for  the  vast  dearth  of  enduring  plays  in  our 
Anglo-Saxon  world  since  Shakespeare.  In  France 
there  are  notably  playwrights,  plays  and  players;  in 
England  and  America  we  have  notably  stars. 

Comedy  is,  of  course,  the  genius  of  the  French  as 
tragedy  is  the  genius  of  the  British,  and  Coquelin  was 
wise  in  not  resting  his  laurels  on  Moliere  and  the  con- 
secrated past.  However  high  Moliere  stands  in  the 
halls  of  fame — and  he  cannot  well  be  placed  too  high, 
however  much,  too,  we  love  the  man  himself  for  his 
extremely  human  and  heart-moving  life  and  character 
— he  appears  lacking  in  certain  elements  of  universal 
growth.  He  is  restricted  more  and  more  to  the  aca- 
demic. He  does  not  make  a  wide,  practical  appeal 
outward  and  downward  in  modern  democracy.  This 
may  not  be  due  to  his  limitations  perhaps  so  much  as 
to  the  fact  that  France  has  been  reduced  from  the 
position  of  aristocratic  dominance  to  that  of  a  mere 
nation  among  equally  prominent  nations. 

The  mobility  and  suavity  of  Coquelin  were  found 
identified,  as  a  result,  with  a  varied  multitude  of  roles 


228       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

which  he  created.  He  represented,  as  no  other  come- 
dian, those  two  opposite  poles  of  the  mimetic  art — 
breadth  and  exquisiteness.  Does  an  admirer  recall  him 
by  preference  in  the  social  and  ethical  "Denise"?  Or 
as  Labussiere  in  the  thunderous  "Thermidor"?  Or  in 
the  gentle  and  delicious  "Monde  ou  Ton  s'ennuie"? 
Or,  above  all,  do  we  think  of  him  at  nearly  sixty  (when 
he  was  officially  at  the  age  of  honorable  retirement  and 
self-consecration  to  his  memories)  as  adopting  and 
crystallizing  the  genius  of  a  young  and  obscure  play- 
wright who  belonged  to  a  brand-new  generation?  The 
world  fell  promptly  in  love  with  Cyrano  and  Flam- 
beau as  Coquelin — all  so  stirring  and  magical  in  the 
golden  chimes  of  the  author's  Alexandrines.  One  can 
scarcely  imagine  Rostand  without  his  inspirer  and  vis- 
ualiser.  What  lover  of  daring  variety  did  not  deeply 
regret  this  loss  in  the  cast  of  the  too  long  delayed 
"Chantecleer"? 

Rire  et  bien  dire — to  laugh  and  to  recite  well — ^was 
the  characteristic  motto  in  the  homes  of  the  Coquelins. 
Exemplifying  their  race,  they  believed  with  Rabelais 
that  To  Laugh  is  to  be  Truly  a  Man.  Coquelin  did 
an  inestimable  service  in  acquainting  foreign  peoples 
with  the  intimate  delights  of  French  comedy  of  the 
old  classic  periods.  As  a  mime  he  brought  corporeally 
home  to  other  races  those  perfect  pictures  of  the  life 
and  times  of  that  exalted  age  when  civilization  looked 
exclusively  to  Paris  for  light. 

His  tact,  bonhomie,  easy  accessibility  were  only  too 
well  known.  He  was  adored  in  France  despite  the  fact 
that   there   the   dividing  lines   between    schools   and 


Coquelin  the  Elder  229 

cliques,  between  what  is  official  and  whafis  radical  and 
progressive,  are  habitually  so  sharply,  so  fiercely, 
drawn.  He  made  and  kept  friends  in  all  spots  of  a 
land  where  people  scarcely  hesitate  to  wound  forever 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  them  for  the  sake  of  a 
principle  In  art  or  literature.  Strange  as  this  seems  to 
our  Yankee  race  who  take  these  subjects  lukewarmly, 
not  to  say  chillily,  all  this  is  most  serious,  vital  business 
on  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  It  illustrates,  in  part,  how 
the  French  strive  to  exalt  the  drama  by  the  sacrifice 
of  the  individual.  And  as  for  what  precisely  they 
idealize  in  comedy,  this  is  nowhere  so  deftly  and  com- 
pactly signalized  as  in  one  of  the  fine  sonnets  of  Sully 
Prudhomme,  dedicated,  as  it  happens,  to  Coquelin's 
brother: 

Quel  bonheur!  n'est-ce  pas?  de  reveiller  encore, 
En  honneur  des  aieux,  dans  le  rire  gaulois 
La  gaite  du  bon  sens  qu'un  beau  verbe  decore  I 

(What  joy  to  awaken  again  in  Gallic  laughter,  in 
honor  of  our  ancestors,  the  gayety  of  good  sense  dec- 
orated by  beautiful  words!) 


iv.     Dumas  the  Elder 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Dumas  the  Elder  died  in  1870  when  67  years  old.  He  led  a 
tumultuous  life  as  reflected  in  his  stories.  To  avoid  creditors  he 
traveled  for  years  in  foreign  lands.  Three  hundred  volumes  are 
credited  to  his  pen.  His  most  widely  read  novels  were  written 
between  1843  and  1850.  His  best  literary  fame  rests  in  France 
on  his  plays  which  remain  live  classics  and  are  accepted  without 
reserve  by  critics.  He  antedated  Victor  Hugo  on  the  French 
Romantic  stage. 


DUMAS  THE  ELDER 

DUMAS  was  a  roistering,  rollicking,  bluff  and 
blustering  blade  who,  about  1800,  came  out 
of  the  medieval  forests  of  Villers-Cotterets, 
about  fifty  miles  northeast  of  Paris — a  country  of  royal 
woods  of  the  chase,  of  feudal  chateaux  and  turreted, 
moated  fortresses  of  the  truest  Gothic  type  and  period. 
His  color  did  not  of  course  prove  a  barrier  to  him  in 
France  where  there  is  none  of  the  American  prejudice 
against  the  negro. 

Dumas  the  Elder  was  not  a  man.  He  was  a  force 
of  Nature.  To  speak  more  particularly,  he  smacked 
of  the  campagne — of  the  French  provinces  of  quon- 
dam romance  and  knightly  adventure,  and  quaint  old 
village  inns  with  courts  full  of  vehicles  and  the  smell 
of  hot  steeds  in  the  air.  Big,  thick-set,  hairy,  he  had 
the  handgrasp  of  a  horse-shoer,  the  voice  of  an  auc- 
tioneer, and  a  laugh  that  was  loud,  immortal  and  un- 
restrained, carrying  all  persons  and  things  before  it. 

Without  literary  antecedents  or  well-defined  sources 
of  education,  he  became  a  master  of  style,  a  dialogist 
having  scarcely  a  peer  in  the  world,  an  everlasting 
wonder  for  belletristic  fecundity,  invention,  facility, 
imagination.  And  this  too  at  the  time  when  his  friends 
Balzac  and  (especially)  Victor  Hugo  were  teaching 
the  republic  of  letters  to  be  astonished  at  nothing.    His 

233 


234       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

imagination  was  so  lively,  immense,  that  the  truth  cut 
a  poor,  small  figure  in  his  domains.  He  was  in  fact 
such  a  colossal  fantast  that  people  could  (it  was 
averred)  scarcely  believe  the  opposite  of  what  he  said. 

More  than  this,  he  lived  some  fifty  mature  years 
with  small  regard  for  the  laws,  rules  and  conventions 
which  govern  men,  and  without  which  civilization 
would  be  impossible.  If  there  were  any  safeguarding 
restrictions  he  did  not  ride  over,  they  must  simply  have 
escaped  his  attention.  It  was  in  a  hearty,  impulsive 
fashion  that  he  existed,  happy  in  his  irresponsibilities, 
with  slight  concern  for  the  morrow  and  in  total  ob- 
livion of  yesterday;  a  friend  of  every  one,  knowing 
everybody,  a  prodigious  farceur,  at  home  in  every  cor- 
ner in  France,  ready  to  divide  his  last  sou  with  the  first 
comer,  and  never  paying  if  it  could  well  be  avoided. 
His  life  was  essentially  that  of  his  most  popular  heroes, 
lacking  their  military  aspect. 

Naturally  such  a  character  did  not  tarry  long  in  a 
place.  As  Dumas  usually  could  not  pay,  he  moved  on 
— lived  en  voyage;  for  thus  it  often  is  that  those  who 
have  not  the  means  to  dwell  anywhere,  seem  to  have 
money  for  travel.  In  the  example  of  his  Musketeers, 
he  was  half  expected  to  appear  on  the  scene  at  any 
place,  at  any  hour,  without  warning,  but  always  some- 
how in  the  nick  of  time  or  at  least  in  a  manner  apropos, 
promptly  ready  to  share  in  the  surprises  of  any  fall 
of  the  curtain. 

In  turning  up  at  a  favorite  provincial  inn  like  the 
Hotel  de  La  Cloche  at  Compiegne  or  the  Cadran  Bleu 
at  Fontainebleau,  he  at  once  took  possession,  ordered 


Dumas  the  Elder  235 

everybody  about,  chucked  the  hotel  maids  under  the 
chin,  roared  out  his  horselaughs,  exploded  with  huge 
jokes,  converted  night  into  day.  Then  suddenly  some 
fine  morning  he  would  be  setting  off,  paying  the  host 
merely  with  affectionate  embraces,  feeing  the  maids 
with  compliments — and  the  honest  renegade  and  civil- 
ian swashbuckler  was  gone,  not  to  be  heard  of  perhaps 
until  from  some  expensive  height  in  the  Alps,  or  on 
some  prodigal  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean. 

He  had  money  only  for  extravaganzas.  It  went 
against  the  grain  of  this  child  of  Nature  to  pay  for 
the  necessaries  of  life  out  of  his  Gargantuan  earnings. 
Nor  was  he  sufficiently  considerate  at  any  time  to  try 
to  borrow  enough  to  liquidate  all  he  owed.  Conse- 
quently there  followed,  in  his  train,  bailiffs  or  other 
unpleasant  parties,  at  the  urgent  instances  of  creditors 
who  had  small  taste  for  literature  at  their  own  expense, 
and  were  not  of  the  stripe  to  foster  genius  by  fur- 
nishing hospitable  comforts  and  cash  commodities  in 
exchange  for  big  handshakes  and  blunderbuss  ha-ha- 
has! 

A  French  gentleman  whom  I  knew  in  Paris  was  in 
the  Alps  in  the  early  1850's.  A  storm  caught  him  late 
one  afternoon  high  on  a  mountain,  and  he  was  forced 
to  seek  accommodations  in  a  poor  sort  of  chalet.  An- 
other storm-driven  tourist  soon  bustled  in,  and  with 
jovial  boisterousness  began  trying  to  have  something 
served  for  dinner,  the  proprietor  protesting  that  they 
stayed  at  their  own  risk — he  was  not  prepared  for 
guests.  The  stranger  insisted  on  at  least  having 
chicken.     No  chicken  at  hand.    Then  it  would  be  eggs. 


236       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

No  eggs,  positively.  What!  not  merely  two  eggs  for 
two  famished  visitors?  Well,  perhaps  two  eggs  might 
be  spared,  no  more;  and  they  would  be  dear,  being 
from  the  host's  own  yard.  Eh  bien,  we'll  take  the  two 
eggs  fried;  and  since  you  have  your  own  eggs,  you 
have  a  hen — I  knew  you  were  lying;  here's  five  francs 
for  her.  The  two  men  had  eggs  and  chicken  for 
dinner. 

Who  was  this  irrepressible,  astonishing  stranger? 
my  friend  asked  himself.  They  fell  to  talking  of  lit- 
erature at  table.  My  friend's  favorite  writer  proved 
to  be  Alexandre  Dumas:  what  youth  could  resist  "The 
Three  Musketeers?"  But  at  this  announcement  the 
other,  who  was  much  older,  indulged  in  expressions  of 
disgust  and  wrath.  He  disapproved  of  Dumas  in 
round  terms — an  author  with  no  style,  no  ideas,  in 
short,  an  imbecile.  A  fine  literary  quarrel  thereupon 
waxed  loud  and  strong,  my  friend  feeling  that  he  must 
defend  the  Musketeers,  the  Count  of  Monte-Cristo. 
He  excitedly  set  forth  the  merits  of  his  author  as  best 
he  could,  smarting  under  the  roustabout  arguments 
and   assertions   of  his  vis-a-vis. 

When  the  young  man  had  finally  exhausted  the  list 
of  his  good  reasons  for  adoring  Dumas,  the  stranger 
broke  out  in  roaring  enthusiasm,  embraced  his  com- 
panion vigorously,  exclaiming: 

"My  boy,  /  am  Alexandre  Dumas!" — to  the  utter 
amazement  and  delight  of  my  friend. 

Dumas  took  him  along  as  a  guest  for  the  next  three 
weeks  on  a  roving  Alpine  expedition,  the  former  daily 


Dumas  the  Elder  237 

scribbling  on  inn  tables  an  installment  of  his  story  then 
appearing  in  a  Paris  journal. 

So  it  was  with  him.  Wherever  present  he  filled  all 
the  space,  loomed  on  all  horizons,  made  all  the  noise, 
partook  of  everything  offered  or  unoffered.  When 
one  of  his  plays  came  out,  he  would  occupy  a  con- 
spicuous box  by  the  stage  and  applaud  the  loudest, 
laugh  the  most  uproariously  at  his  own  jests,  and  fre- 
quently, too,  when  the  audience  discovered  no  jest  at 
all  and  left  him  to  laugh  alone.  And  this,  not  from 
egotism,  but  from  an  unconscious,  incorrigible  pro- 
pensity for  having  a  stupendous  good  time. 

Apropos,  we  in  America  little  realize  that  Dumas 
the  Elder  was  not  only  perhaps  the  greatest  modern 
story-teller,  he  was  one  of  the  leading  French  play- 
wrights of  the  nineteenth  century.  Of  his  many 
dramas  his  "Henri  III  et  sa  cour"  (1829)  and  his 
"Kean"  remain  on  the  Paris  repertoires,  the  former 
having  been  the  first  stage  triumph  of  the  French  Ro- 
mantic school,  antedating  "Hernani"  by  a  year.  But 
more  successful  was  he  in  comedies,  for  three  of  them, 
written  about  1840,  are  performed  regularly  at  the 
Frangais,  and  are  chaste  and  acknowledged  classics  of 
their  genre  and  altogether  delightful.  His  famous 
son,  the  author  of  "Camille,"  therefore  came  naturally 
enough  by  his  talent  for  playwrighting,  though  in  no 
other  respect  did  he  seem  to  resemble  or  be  in  harmony 
with  his  father. 

For  those  who  borrow  trouble  in  the  thought  that 
Dumas  did  not  write  his  own  stories,  or  at  least  all  of 


238       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

them  or  all  parts  of  them,  and  that  perhaps  he  had 
not  the  genius  to  conceive  and  write  them  and  was  ac- 
cordingly a  literary  mountebank  of  farcical  propor- 
tions, it  is  well  to  remember  that  Dumas  is  acknowl- 
edged to  have  written  his  own  plays.  He  did  not 
turn  them  over  to  miscellaneous  and  unknown  gifted 
persons  who  were  considerate  enough  not  to  pen  any- 
thing worth  while  after  he  died  or  before  he  was 
born.  We  should  not  forget  too  that  in  his  comedies 
he  presents  notably  the  qualities  which  we  do  not  as- 
sociate with  his  loose,  undisciplined  personality  and 
fame :  namely,  the  well-modulated,  justly  interbalanc- 
ing  "medium  qualities"  which  the  French  so  admire, 
and  regard  as  the  expression  of  the  best,  the  sanest, 
art. 

Death  at  last  met  this  indefatigable  tourist,  this 
"bon  diable,"  in  1870;  and  not  in  a  noisy  inn  of  Nor- 
mandy, or  off  some  Mediterranean  island  which  he  had 
immortalized  by  his  romances,  but  in  his  son's  villa  at 
Puys,  just  north  of  Dieppe.  It  is  a  pleasant  retreat, 
in  a  little  wrinkle  of  the  earth,  a  few  rods  from  the 
sea.  On  the  hill  at  the  right  are  the  formidable  re- 
mains of  some  unidentified  Gallo-Roman  camp. 

The  commemorator  of  Dumas  the  Man  might  per- 
haps find  a  fortunate  theme  in  the  fact  that  Dumas 
loved  the  good  women  he  knew — and  there  were  many 
of  them,  and  of  the  best  in  France — as  a  devoted 
father  or  brother,  and  not  as  a  lover.  He  was  fond 
of  inscribing  in  their  albums  playful  sentiments.  "To 
embark  on  your  career  with  a  woman  is  to  embark 
with  a  tempest,  in  which,  however,  she  is  the  lifeboat." 


Dumas  the  Elder  239 

He  liked  to  send  to  them  from  long  distances,  at  rare 
and  all  the  more  precious  intervals,  affectionate  letters 
and  throbbing  poesies  over  which  he  shed  many  a  tear, 
and  which  made  them  weep  for  tenderness,  and  which 
make  our  eyes  moisten  to-day.  For  he  could  evoke, 
with  much  of  the  familiar  power  of  his  overshadowing 
mate  and  friend,  Victor  Hugo,  a  gentle  memory  and 
womanly  feelings  for  days  far  removed  or  for  friends 
long  gone  or  forever. 


V.     Dumas  the  Younger 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

The  famous  son  of  the  great  Dumas  was  born  in  1824  and 
died  in  1895.  He  first  distinguished  himself  in  1852  with  the  play 
"La  Dame  aux  Camelias"  which  he  constructed  from  his  novel  of 
the  same  name,  published  in  1848.  His  long  list  of  excellent 
dramas  are  of  the  social  type,  representing  the  manners  of  his  day. 
They  include  "Le  demi-monde"  (1855) — he  invented  this  term; 
"La  femme  de  Claude"  (1873);  "Denise"  (1885).  He  entered 
the  Academy  in  1874. 


DUMAS  THE  YOUNGER 

DUMAS  THE  YOUNGER— Dumas  ^— was 
of  only  medium  height  and  somewhat  portly. 
At  your  second  glance  the  negroid  was  evi- 
dent in  his  face — ^the  crinkly  hair,  the  skin  swarthy,  if 
not  in  a  pronounced  way. 

He  became  the  opposite  of  his  father  in  nearly  all 
respects.  The  former,  by  his  plays,  amassed  wealth 
which  he  snugly  kept  together.  He  led  throughout 
his  maturity  a  conservative,  well-ordered  existence,  be- 
ing eminently  sagacious  in  his  relations  with  his  fellow 
beings.  He  lived  in  becoming  luxury,  surrounded  by 
fine  works  of  art  in  which  he  was  a  connoisseur. 

Dumas  was  especially  devoted  to  paintings.  Some 
of  those  he  owned  he  pointed  out  to  me  with  relish. 
Having  at  first  eyed  me  cautiously,  seeing  that  I  was 
interested  in  French  canvases,  he  led  me  up  his  mar- 
ble staircase  to  his  bedroom  to  show  me  there  a  large 
handsome  nude  hanging  above  his  couch.  I  have  for- 
gotten the  name  of  the  artist,  but  the  work  was  in 
the  unrelieved  realistic  style  that  prevailed  before  the 
days  of  Impressionism.  The  picture,  of  forceful  skill, 
appeared  too  hard  in  treatment  to  be  insinuatingly 
seductive. 

Paintings  are  usually  the  coins  current  through 
whose  lore  you   most  easily  come  to   know   literary 

243 


244       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Frenchmen;  and  this  canvas,  in  its  manner  instead  of 
its  subject,  let  in  for  me  much  more  light  on  the  na- 
ture of  Dumas  the  Younger.  A  sturdy,  unappealing, 
not  very  communicative,  well-rounded  character,  he 
was  as  one  held  aloof,  like  this  painting,  from  the  view 
and  reach  of  the  general  indiscriminating  public.  He 
was  never  expansive  nor  confiding.  He  had  no  airs, 
cared  nothing  about  attracting  attention.  On  rare  oc- 
casions only  did  he  appear. 

He  stood  forth,  however,  as  one  of  the  greatest 
phrase-makers  of  his  half  century.  Men  halted  be- 
fore his  wit  and  sarcasm,  keen  and  trenchant,  yet  al- 
ways well-balanced.  There  was  nothing  offhand  or 
casual  about  his  use  of  these  weapons.  He  maturely 
reasoned  out  everything  he  said  or  did. 

As  we  mounted  his  stairs  Dumas  gave  me  a  sample 
of  his  humor,  though  he  was  more  inclined  to  wit.  It 
happened  that  a  French  scientist  had  just  declared  that 
he  was  about  to  perfect  a  method  with  his  chemicals 
by  which  children  might  be  born  into  the  world  in  lab- 
oratories in  an  intelligent,  scientific  way.  The  Paris 
press,  as  might  be  expected,  were  seizing  upon  this 
purported  discovery  with  Gallic  jibes,  developing  the 
promised  program  with  gay  deductions. 

My  host  turned  to  me  with  a  deep  twinkle  in  his 
eyes  and  said: 

"No  matter  what  the  clever  scientists  may  pretend, 
I  think  the  old-fashioned  way  of  producing  children 
in  the  home  instead  of  in  a  factory  will  always  be  the 
most  satisfactory  and  popular." 

Dumas  maintained  the  attitude  of  a  social  philos- 


Dumas  the  Younger  245 

opher  contemplating  men  and  women  of  class  in  their 
interrelations,  and  setting  forth  his  views  and  con- 
clusions in  the  form  of  dramas  instead  of  essays  or 
didactic  volumes.  One  of  the  foremost  dramatists  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  he  possessed  adept  and  solid 
merits  and  contributed  realism  and  logic  to  the  play. 
He  exerted  for  forty  years  a  serious  and  powerful 
influence  on  the  French  theater,  adding  to  its  art  con- 
scientious and  technical  truth  as  well  as  a  masterly 
psychology  as  to  social  conditions  and  social  characters 
of  the  highest  bourgeois  classes — those  which  stand 
next  to  the  aristocracy.  He  sought  to  unravel  com- 
plexities or  sound  deluding  depths  by  a  sensible  can- 
dor, and  to  show  a  practical  way  out  through  dignified 
readjustments  and  compromises. 

In  the  plays  of  Dumas  the  Younger  there  is  nearly 
always  a  character  who  is  of  a  philosophic  turn  and 
out  of  whose  lips  come  forth  the  duly  weighed  pro- 
nouncements of  the  author  himself.  His  general  atti- 
tude here  was  to  add  common  sense,  practical  seemli- 
ness  and  circumspect  behavior  to  the  affairs  of  love. 
He  strove  against  Romantic  passions  and  Romantic 
motives  among  whose  tempestuous  whirlwinds  he  had, 
however,  developed  into  young  manhood.  If  either 
the  brain  or  the  heart  had  to  be  sacrificed,  he  pro- 
posed that  the  heart  be  sacrificed  in  the  self-respecting 
interest  of  the  common  weal.  After  this  fashion,  un- 
like the  wayward  Romantics,  he  grew  to  be,  as  an 
intellectual  aristocrat,  a  convinced  moralist  and  an 
authority  on  the  inexhaustible  topic  of  the  domestic 
triangle.     In  his  last  twenty  years  he  oflUciated,  as  it 


246       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

were,  as  an  acknowledged  arbiter  in  the  social  prob- 
lems of  the  salon  and  boudoir.  But  while  always  ex- 
pressing a  comfortable  and  rational  philosophy  about 
human  existence,  his  resigned  dicta  had  an  astringent 
tone  and  through  this  sprang  into  being  that  irony  and 
wit  to  which  we  have  referred. 

Dumas  was  a  playwright  with  theses  usually  but- 
tressed by  cogent  prefaces  or  pamphlets.  He  also 
made  use  of  the  press  by  his  infrequent  editorials  and 
letters  which  all  Frenchmen  read  with  respect.  It 
was,  as  indicated,  quite  the  fashion  to  wait  and  see 
what,  if  anything,  Dumas  would  say  as  the  last  word 
on  any  subject  in  his  line.  As  he  took  more  to  writing 
than  to  the  active  stage  business,  his  plays,  differing 
from  American  plays,  have  great  literary  quality  and 
are  extensively  read. 

Unlike  his  father,  Dumas  was  thoroughly  a  man  of 
Paris.  Beyond  its  confines,  or  at  least  those  of  his 
own  country,  his  interests  did  not  go.  Paris  provided 
a  rich  enough  mine  for  him,  offering  him  all  the  ma- 
terials that  his  curiosity  wished  to  resolve.  One  saw 
him  little  indeed  out  of  his  own  intimate  circle — his 
city  house  and  his  country  house  at  Marly  and  the 
theater  where  one  of  his  plays  might  be  in  rehearsal. 
The  world-wide  aspirations  of  Sardou  and  Coquelin 
did  not  lure  him. 

Hence,  his  dramas,  while  so  potent  and  vital  in  the 
history  of  the  French  theater,  are  not  often  played  in 
other  lands.  The  forms  of  the  problems  and  situa- 
tions which  they  analyze  and  display  are  admittedly 


Dumas  the  Younger  247 

French  and  lose  their  pertinent  values  once  the  forti- 
fications of  Paris  are  passed. 

In  having  in  real  life  an  aversion  for  the  advertising 
interviewer,  the  professional  gossip,  the  hero-wor- 
shiper— thus  varying  in  the  extreme  from  his  confrere 
Sardou — Dumas  at  the  same  time  manifested  in  his 
plays  a  marked  dislike  for  the  prude,  the  Puritan  and 
those  social  reformers  for  whom  everything  is  easy 
and  who  propose  to  change  human  nature  and  cure  all 
evils  in  a  day.    This  was  to  him  hypocritical. 

And  yet  the  sympathies  of  Dumas  should  not  be 
called  inactive.  They  stood  open  along  rational  lines. 
A  reasonable  tolerance  formed  the  base  of  his  con- 
structive social  religion.  And  yet  how  strangely  dif- 
ferent was  this  from  his  father's  expansive  laxity  which 
knew  neither  standards  nor  limits! 


vi.    Judith  Gautier 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Judith  Gautier,  the  talented  literary  daughter  of  Theophile 
Gautier,  the  celebrated  poet,  and  of  Carlotta  Grisi,  delightful  in 
memories  as  a  ballet  queen,  was  born  in  1 850.  She  married  the 
well-known  litterateur  Catulle  Mendes  in  1866;  was  divorced; 
and  married  Pierre  Loti  in  1913.  She  and  Loti  collaborated  in 
the  play  "The  Daughter  of  Heaven,"  produced  in  New  York.  She 
is  an  Orientalist,  her  plays  and  fiction  dealing  with  Chinese  and 
Japanese  subjects. 


JUDITH   GAUTIER 

THE  famous  daughter  of  Theophile  Gautier 
received  me  one  afternoon  in  her  modest 
Paris  salon  in  the  rue  Washington.  I  was 
struck  at  once  by  her  resemblance  to  her  father — by 
her  powerful  physique,  by  the  dead  white  color  of  her 
face,  and  by  a  certain  plastic  grandeur  that  would 
tempt  the  chisel,  and  which  Gautier  loved  to  hew  in 
snowy  blocks  of  stanzas. 

She  spoke  of  many  things.  First,  of  Japanism,  since 
she  was  one  of  its  earliest  devotees  in  France.  The 
Goncourts  had  started  the  fashion,  and,  for  that  mat- 
ter, the  exiled  Hugo  was  always  painting  and  carving 
distorted  and  sunny  Celestials.  But  Judith  Gautier 
was  the  first  to  translate  Yellow  romances  for  French 
readers,  and  to  prepare  a  Saffron  drama  for  the  Paris 
stage.  This  drama,  "The  Merchant  of  Smiles,"  was 
given  at  the  Odeon  in  1888,  and  was  played  at  Daly's 
in  New  York  under  another  title.  Her  Japanese  novel 
"The  Usurper"  was  awarded  a  prize  by  the  French 
Academy  in  1875,  when  the  author  was  twenty-five 
years  old.  It  is  a  simple  oriental  tale  along  whose 
way  you  see  sumptuous  flowers  and  emerald  colored 
grass,  and  hear  the  susurration  of  citron-tree  groves, 
and  mount  white  stairs  leading  to  purplish  skies. 
"My  Japanese  books  have  not  met  with  success  in 

251 


252       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

England  and  America,"  she  said  in  her  echoless  voice. 
"I  am  told  that  the  English  and  Americans  are  inter- 
ested in  the  Japanese  for  their  grotesque  drollery, 
whereas  I  have  tried  to  treat  the  sad  side  of  their 
nature.  No,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  I  have  never 
been  in  the  orient — I  live  there  only  in  the  imagination. 
Foreign  souls  arouse  my  curiosity  more  than  foreign 
localities — people  rather  than  places.  Of  late  I  have 
been  giving  myself  wholly  to  theater  work — writing 
plays.  It  is  easy  and  does  not  take  long  stretches  of 
time.  The  difficulty  comes  in  getting  your  pieces  satis- 
factorily before  the  public.  I  am  such  a  poor  com- 
batant— I  yield  to  every  one's  judgment." 

The  subject  changed  to  Wagner.  Judith  Gautier 
was  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends.  "I  was  born  a 
Wagnerite,"  she  said.  "As  far  back  as  I  can  re- 
member, his  music  was  magic  to  me.  I  was  a  mere 
gamine  when  first  I  used  to  see  him  at  Lucerne.  He 
was  pleased  to  proclaim  me  as  one  of  his  patronesses 
at  Bayreuth.  He  playfully  called  me  his  Valkyria — his 
Erunhild.  I  have  a  casket  of  letters  from  him.  Ah, 
if  he  could  have  lived  a  few  years  more !  He  had  great 
things  yet  in  store.  He  told  me  of  the  new  opera  he 
was  meditating.  Hindustan  was  the  scene  and  Buddha 
was  to  be  introduced.  But  he  had  to  go — he  was 
very  weary — he  had  suffered  so  much.  No,  my  book 
on  his  poetical  work  can  hardly  be  found  now — it  is 
almost  out  of  print.  Baudry  made  the  frontispiece 
for  it — Parsifal.  There  is  the  original  drawing  itself" 
(indicating  a  picture  on  the  wall). 


Judith  Gautier  253 

My  kindly  hostess  observed  that  I  was  stealing  a 
glance  at  the  room.  She  arose  and  I  followed  her  as 
she  talked  of  its  various  souvenirs  and  ornaments. 
Two  sides  of  the  salon  were  lined  with  one  continuous 
Turkish  divan,  above  which  ran  a  continuous  mirror 
with  Turkish  cloths  grouped  along  its  upper  border. 
Light  entered  through  two  stained  glass  windows. 
One  of  them  had  been  painted  for  Theophile  Gautier 
by  a  Turk,  and  the  poet's  name  was  in  the  center  of  it. 
"The  other  window  I  attempted  to  make  myself  in 
imitation  of  this  one." 

There  was,  opposite,  Liszt's  photograph  embel- 
lished with  his  signature  and  greetings.  And  some  pic- 
tures of  my  new  friend  by  her  American  friend  Sar- 
gent adorned  the  narrow  walls.  In  one  of  them  she 
appears  as  a  kind  of  Madame  Chrysanthemum;  in  an- 
other she  is  seen  sitting  on  the  green  bank  of  a  brook. 

"I  have  only  a  pied-a-terre — a  mere  stopping  place 
— in  Paris,"  she  remarked.  "I  pass  most  of  the  year 
at  Dinard.  I  have  there  a  little  brick  house  that  stands 
right  by  the  edge  of  the  sea — here  is  a  picture  of  it." 
She  showed  me  (with  the  excuse  that  they  were  fab- 
ulously idealized)  some  photographs  of  herself  as  a 
Valkyria  in  magnificent  attitudes  and  with  small  white 
Valkyrian  wings  posing  on  her  black  hair.  There  was 
an  aspect  of  grandiose  humility,  of  valiant  strength,  of 
unconscious  appeal,  in  these  goddess  pictures — a  help- 
less triumph  gleaming  at  me  with  probing  eyes. 
Amazing  eyes,  indeed,  were  the  eyes  of  my  hostess! — 
those  two  deep  torrid  lights  of  lustrous  jet  shining 


254       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

forth  from  a  soul  that  lived,  not  in  France,  but  in  dis- 
tant tropics  where  restless  coralline  understreams  rise 
and  find  solace  at  tranquil  ocean  surfaces. 

You  could  read  behind  this  calm  mien — beneath  this 
mute  and  static  cast  of  presence  which  she  inherited 
from  her  father — that  Judith  Gautier  had  known  "im- 
mortal longings,"  had  tasted  of  supreme  efforts,  had 
been  the  romantic  daughter  of  a  celebrated  Romantic 
poet.  And  with  this  you  remarked,  instead  of  any 
hint  of  formality  or  parade  or  extravagances,  a  noise- 
less simplicity,  a  frank  modesty,  a  shrinking  confidence 
— an  utter  lack  of  grand  manners  and  social  veneer. 

Like  George  Sand's  best  books,  the  books  of  Judith 
Gautier  are  written  as  if  for  girls  and  boys.  Her 
"Cruelties  of  Love,"  notwithstanding  its  sensational 
title,  is  but  a  grouping  together  of  four  plain,  old- 
fashioned  tales  of  love  such  as  American  girls  devour 
at  sixteen.  There  is  nothing  French  about  them  ex- 
cept the  language.  The  same  is  true  of  all  her  pro- 
ductions: they  are  exotic  to  Parisians.  I  ventured 
to  tell  her  that  her  contes  were  the  most  like  our  typical 
American  love  stories  of  any  I  had  ever  read  in 
French. 

She  led  the  way  back  to  our  seats.  The  name  of 
Goncourt  was  mentioned.  "Oh,  I  do  not  feel  that  the 
Goncourts  are  exact,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  recognize 
my  father  at  all  as  he  appears  in  their  pages.  They 
observed  things  at  little  corners,  and  leave  you  with 
general  and  abiding  Impressions  which  should  have 
been  noted  only  as  exceptional — accidental.  If  they 
happened  to  see  you  when  you  had  a  cold,  you  would 


Judith  Gautier  255 

always  have,  for  their  readers,  weeping  eyes  and  a 
strange  voice,  and,  as  a  result,  you  would  go  down  in 
their  history  as  a  kind  of  curious  beast." 

We  talked  again  of  music,  of  Bayreuth.  She  de- 
scribed the  microscopic  care  with  which  she  had  trans- 
lated Parsifal  word  for  word  into  French  prose,  and 
suggested  that  one  must  be  a  master  of  his  own  lan- 
guage in  order  to  translate  well. 

As  I  came  away  through  the  low  ante-chamber,  and 
down  the  five  flights  of  stairs,  I  was  thinking,  not  of 
Wagner  and  his  Valkyrias,  but  of  austral  seas  and 
white,  immobile  statues — of  a  yearning  soul  from  the 
East  locked  within  the  placid  contours  of  some  pearl 
and  ivory  Buddha. 


vii.     Henry  Greville 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Henry  Greville,  pseudonym  of  Madame  Durand,  died  in 
1902  at  the  age  of  60.  Her  many  works  represent  an  emotional 
sensationalism  in  popular  fiction.  She  lived  several  years  in  Russia, 
returning  to  Paris  in  1872.  She  visited  the  United  States  several 
times  on  lecture  tours.  She  w^as  highly  accomplished  in  languages. 
Her  most  successful  stories  are  on  Russian  themes,  depicting  Slav 
characters,  customs,  habits.  The  best  are  "Dosia"  (1876)  and 
"Sonia"  (1877). 


HENRY  GREVILLE 

HENRY  GREVILLE  was  the  literary  heiress 
of  George  Sand.  At  least  so  said  Augier, 
and  so  said  Octave  Feuillet;  and  in  so  say- 
ing they  meant  the  best  George  Sand:  the  idyllic 
George  Sand,  as  in  "la  Petite  Fadette." 

The  stories  of  Madame  Alice  Durand-Greville  have 
been  read  far  more  in  our  country  than  those  of  any 
other  modern  French  woman — indeed,  more  than  those 
of  any  Frangaise  of  the  century  save  the  authors  of  "la 
Mare  au  Diable"  and  "Corinne."  She  was,  for  that 
matter,  known  personally  to  many  Americans.  In 
1885-6  she  spent  six  months  in  our  eastern  states,  giv- 
ing lectures  in  French  and  English. 

Madame  Greville  seemed  really  a  type  of  English 
womanhood.  This  may  be  explained  by  the  fact  that 
she  was  a  Norman  of  pure  blood,  Normandy  being  the 
connecting  link  between  France  and  England.  Fresh 
air,  sunlight,  outdoors  in  the  garden,  were  the  daily 
subjects  in  her  missal. 

Half  the  year  was  passed  in  her  country  home  by 
the  Loire  near  Angers.  From  her  desk  there  she  could 
see  the  sail-spread  barks  glide  picturesquely  up  and 
down  the  river;  and  there  she  lived  with  Nature  as 
George  Sand  lived  in  her  beloved  neighboring  prov- 
ince of  Berry.     To  speak  closer  the  truth,  Madame 

259 


26o       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Greville  treated  rural  life  in  a  more  Naturalistic  and 
practical  manner  than  her  great  romantic  predecessor, 
for  the  former  was  an  amateur  horticulturalist  who 
produced  new  varieties  of  flowers,  and  delighted  to 
dig  in  the  soil  with  her  hands. 

Her  apartment  in  Paris  was  near  the  Exposition 
buildings.  Here  in  a  modest  room,  on  a  table  gay  with 
two  ornamental  lamps  and  three  or  four  bouquets,  and, 
in  mid-winter,  before  a  bright  wood  fire  in  a  grate, 
she  wrote  by  the  side  of  an  erudite  and  most  amiable 
companion — her  husband.  Through  the  window  in 
front  of  her,  there  stretched  away,  between  two  rows 
of  houses,  a  vista  of  southern,  light-streaming  sky. 
Without  some  such  constant  view  of  the  infinite,  Ma- 
dame Greville  would  have  found  it  perhaps  impossible 
to  write  in  Paris. 

Adjoining  this  room  was  her  salon  whose  walls  were 
enriched  by  little  Henners  and  by  one  or  two  Pointelln 
landscapes  in  the  Jura.  Facing  these  paintings  hung 
two  precious,  hand-embroidered,  silk  tapestries.  In 
fact  everywhere  in  the  apartment  were  specimens  of 
her  tapestry  work — a  cloth  on  a  mantel,  a  cover  on  a 
footstool.  It  was  when  weaving  (like  Penelope)  these 
patterns  that  she  thought  out  during  the  winter  season 
the  plans  of  her  next  stories.  Then  in  summer  they 
were  fashioned  mentally  into  shape  among  her  flowers 
at  Bois-Briou.  She  was  able  to  average  two  romances 
a  year  because,  for  one  reason,  she  did  not  put  pen  to 
paper  until  a  book  was  entirely  finished  in  her  head, 
so  that  she  could  readily  pass  before  her  inner  eye 
each  scene  and  chapter  complete  to  the  smallest  detail. 


Henry  Greville  261 

Finally  some  morning  she  would  sit  at  her  writing  table 
and  scribble  off  manuscript  more  rapidly  than  an 
amanuensis  could  copy  it. 

Her  books  are  for  the  great  public,  not  for  critics 
and  dilettants.  They  are  a  wholesome  variety  of,  per- 
haps we  may  say,  the  Naturalistic  novel.  She  took 
Life — Nature — as  she  saw  them  before  her,  and  made 
them  the  basis  of  her  stories.  The  study  of  human 
character  was  her  main  theme.  An  event  in  the  life 
of  a  friend,  or  an  incident  read  in  a  newspaper,  would 
suggest  the  scheme  of  a  tale.  She  traced  in  her  mind 
the  chain  of  circumstances  and  phases  of  character 
which  could  have  led  up  to  that  event  or  incident.  She 
thus  proceeded  backward  from  a  fact — from  some- 
thing that  had  happened. 

And  occasionally  a  friend  or  an  acquaintance  was 
offended,  discovering  how  she  had  portrayed  him 
truthfully.  In  a  more  definite  sense,  her  literature  was 
eminently  moral.  This  explained  why  her  stories 
found  such  favor  in  America :  they  could  be  entrusted 
to  young  girls  for  whom  it  is  educationally  desirable  to 
have  pure  and  simple  fiction  in  simple  and  normal 
French. 

Of  her  seventy  volumes,  many  of  which  have  passed 
through  twenty,  thirty,  forty  editions,  Madame  Gre- 
ville had  a  particular  esteem  and  affection  for 
"I'Aveu,"  "Peril,"  "Nikanor,"  "Clairefontaine," 
"Cleopatre"  and  "fipreuvesde  Raissa."  The  "Temps" 
as  a  rule  published  one  of  her  novels  every  two  years  in 
its  feuilleton.  Her  Russian  fiction  always  had  a 
special  success.     She  thought  the  Slav  soul  inexhaust- 


262       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

ible  in  its  materials  for  the  romancer.  It  was  Tur- 
genev  who  introduced  her  to  the  Paris  editors  on  her 
return  to  France  early  in  the  1870's  from  Russia  where 
she  had  lived  some  time  and  had  married  Professor 
Durand.  Still  it  was  not  until  1876,  the  year  of 
George  Sand's  death,  that  Madame  Greville  obtained 
a  recognition  in  the  French  capital,  and  experienced  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  one  of  her  novels  appear  in  the 
"Revue  des  Deux  Mondes"  while  another  was  appear- 
ing in  the  "Journal  des  Debats." 

Her  manual  called  "The  Civil  and  Moral  Instruc- 
tion of  Young  Girls"  somewhat  offended  the  Roman 
clergy  in  Paris.  She  however  regained  their  favor, 
and  a  prelate  benevolently  remarked  on  one  occasion 
that  she  was  like  an  orange  tree  producing  sweet  and 
bitter,  perfect  and  deformed,  oranges,  but  bound  to 
produce.  Though  a  Catholic  by  birth  and  rearing,  she 
did  not  follow  the  formal  practices  of  Catholicism,  and 
was  proud  to  have  the  wedding  service  of  her  daughter 
performed  by  a  Protestant  clergyman  in  a  Protestant 
church. 

Madame  Greville  had  physical  vigor,  strength  in 
constant  action,  clear,  frank  eyes,  fine,  white  teeth. 
Notwithstanding  her  sturdy  appearance  she  had  been 
well-nigh  an  invalid  for  a  long  time.  The  many  hours 
of  ill  health  which  she  passed  in  bed  she  employed  in 
mentally  writing  books,  in  reading  musical  scores,  and 
in  fixing  rimes  to  fancies  in  order  to  calm  her  nerves. 

A  passionate  lover  of  music,  she  came  near  choosing 
a  composer's  career  instead  of  a  novelist's,  and  could 
follow,  over  the  conductor's  shoulder,  the  most  difficult 


Henry  Greville  263 

orchestral  scores,  at  least  those  of  Wagner's  earlier 
operas.  One  day  when  I  called  she  was  reveling  in  the 
pleasure  of  fingering  the  leaves  of  a  new  edition  of 
Schubert  which  had  just  been  brought  in.  She  was 
among  the  first  to  subscribe  for  the  Lamoureux  con- 
certs— that  bold  enterprise  in  which  Lamoureux  risked 
his  large  fortune. 

She  went  away  from  America  with  the  impression 
that  we  are  always  out  of  doors;  just  as  Americans 
leave  France  with  the  notion  that  the  French  live  in 
the  street.  Her  one  special  and  vivid  recollection  was 
that  of  being  almost  killed  by  Yankee  hospitality  and 
New  Jersey  mosquitoes.  Her  opinion  of  America  was, 
"An  enormous  force  badly  directed,  but  with  an  im- 
mense and  glorious  future." 

Her  belief  in  isolation  for  literary  work  furnished 
one  reason  why  her  name  seldom  appeared  in  the  jour- 
nals and  public  places  of  Paris.  She  was  not,  as  she 
used  to  say  laughingly,  "a  slave  of  the  press"  like  her 
dear  friend  Alphonse  Daudet;  and  declared  that  the 
greatest  triumph  of  her  life  was  in  marrying  her 
daughter  without  letting  a  single  newspaper  get  hold 
of  the  fact.  While  Madame  Greville  avoided  pub- 
licity she  was  very  hospitable.  At  her  Saturdays  in 
the  rue  de  Crenelle  you  were  apt  to  meet  old  and 
young  celebrated  people — Goncourt  and  Daudet  in 
their  time,  Henner,  the  elder  Rosny,  the  rare  Pointelin. 
Out  of  her  big,  kind  heart  came  freely  the  invitation: 
"Run  down  and  see  us  this  summer  at  Bois-Briou.  I 
will  show  you  what  a  good  cook  I  am." 

Monsieur  Durand  was  her  best  literary  adviser  and 


264       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

friend.  A  very  modest  gentleman,  he  was  most  loyally 
devoted  to  her  service  and  to  her  fame.  He  had  given 
up  teaching  many  years  before,  and  his  own  province 
became  that  of  an  expert  judge  of  paintings  who 
thought  nothing  of  journeying  from  one  city  or  town 
to  another  far  away  in  order  to  decide  on  the  original 
of  two  disputing  canvases. 

Of  Madame  Greville's  poems,  written  (as  indicated 
above)  to  pass  the  hours  of  ill  health  and  not  for 
publication,  one  in  particular,  which  she  called  "Le 
Depart  des  Barques"  (on  the  Loire),  always  exhales 
for  me  a  delicate,  penetrating  tenderness  worthy  of  a 
"vaine  tendresse"  of  Sully  Prudhomme.  Of  its  four 
stanzas — they  lie  before  me  in  her  handwriting  as  I  pen 
these  words — I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  the  last 
two  as  somewhat  fitting  to  the  feelings  which  come  in 
realizing  that  she  too  has  passed  out  into  the  Beyond. 

Les  barques  s'en  vont,  silhouettes  greles, 
On  les  voit  decroitre  a  I'horizon  clair. 
On  s'avise  alors  qu'elles  sont  bien  freles, 
Un  petit  frisson  a  passe  dans  I'air. 

On  distingue  encor  leur  forme  amoindrie, 
Qui  s'efface  et  fuit  tout  la-bas,  la-bas. 
On  rentre  un  peu  triste,  a  tout  petits  pas.  ^  .  , 
Ainsi  nos  enfants,  quand  on  les  marie. 

(The  barks  float  away,  slim  silhouettes. 
We  see  them  blend  into  the  clear  horizon. 
We  realize  then  what  frailty  is  theirs. 
A  little  shiver  has  passed  in  the  air. 


Henry  Greville  265 

We  still  watch  their  diminishing  forms 
That  fade  and  flee  away,  far  away, 
And  we  return  home  a  wee-bit  sad,  with 
Little  footsteps — as  when  our  children  wed.) 


viii.     Gyp 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Gyp,  pseudonym  of  the  Countess  de  Martel  de  Janville, 
was  born  in  1850.  She  traced  her  lineage  as  a  grand-niece  of 
Mirabeau.  She  produced  one  hundred  and  thirty  novels  or 
novelettes  in  thirty  years,  and  originated  those  popular  characters 
in  Parisian  life  known  as  Petit  Bob  (1882),  Paulette  (1883)  and 
Loulou  (1888).  She  pictured  a  semi-dissipated  society  upon  whose 
flanks  she  applied  the  whips  of  humorous  raillery  and  withering 
scorn.  Her  irony  flayed  many  vanities  and  perversities,  yet 
without  anger  or  bitterness.  She  became  a  literary  idol  of  the 
boulevards,  combining  the  attitudes  of  an  aristocratic  lady  and  a 
tom-boy  with  gayety,  verve,  esprit,  vivacity.  She  stood  as  a  sort 
of  official  satirist  of  French  high  life,  yet  a  friend  of  the  mob. 
She  knew  how  to  handle  risky  situations  with  clever  and  excusable 
audacity.  Being  a  master  of  dialogue,  she  has  been  called  a 
modern  Lucian  in  petticoats. 


GYP 

HER  salon  was  hung  in  tapestries.  A  clock 
pointing  at  the  wrong  hour.  Pictures  every- 
where. Among  them  her  portrait  by  Aublet. 
And  of  her  daughter  a  pastel  stretching  along  on  a  low 
black  satin  lounge.  A  large  white  porcelain  grate  with 
a  fire  slowly  and  nobly  dying  out.  Just  in  front  of  the 
grate  a  gigantic  green  china  frog  squatted  before  a  cir- 
cular sofa.  The  sofa  strewn  with  illustrated  journals, 
Forain  sketches.  Crowning  its  summit  a  jardiniere,  in 
the  form  of  a  dragon,  wrathfully  displayed  a  coronet 
of  plants.  Griffinesque  Japan  and  patient  Ethiopia 
contributed  their  distorted  fantasies  and  Atlantean 
feats  to  the  exotic  and  eccentric  spectacle  of  the  salon. 
The  general  tone  was  of  a  dark  green  and  yellow, 
everywhere  agitated  in  rapid  curves  and  brusque 
designs. 

The  furniture  and  furnishings  gave  evidence  of  use 
and  had  for  that  reason  a  homelike  air.  The  room 
was  evidently  lived  in.  On  the  right  of  the  grate  a 
huge  fauteuil  on  rollers  opened  its  arms  to  the  visitor. 
It  was  Talleyrand's,  and  in  it  on  Thursday  and  Sun- 
day afternoons  Anatole  France  used  to  sit  and  visit 
with  his  hostess.  What  tete-a-tete  these  must  have 
been!  On  the  other  side  of  the  grate  a  Majolica 
monkey  climbed  a  bell  rope.     A  little  back  from  this 

269 


270       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

side  of  the  fireplace  stood  an  English  folding  screen 
decorated  with  those  famous  caricatures  of  "Bob" 
which  were  once  exposed  at  the  Bodiniere. 

Before  the  folding  screen  in  a  yellow  fauteuil  Gyp 
would  sit  in  her  nervous,  unconventional  way.  Imagine 
her  clad  in  a  loose  dress  of  lemon-colored  plush 
trimmed  with  white  down,  a  little  open  at  the  neck, 
and  a  tiny  silver  bell  hanging  suspended  there  against 
the  tegument.  And  fancy  a  great  brass  serpent  coiling 
thrice  around  her  throat. 

She  was  slight  and  of  medium  height.  It  was  ap- 
parent that  to  her  mind  fashion  is  a  stupid  conven- 
tion. No  suspicions  of  powder  nor  paint  nor  perfume 
haunted  her  presence.  Her  hair  was  a  dull  blond. 
It  was  frizzed  saucily  down  over  her  brow  and  she 
now  and  then  brushed  it  away  from  her  violet-gray 
eyes.  Her  face  showed  that  its  mistress  loved  the 
sun,  the  wind,  the  brine  of  the  sea.  Doubtless  it  had 
never  occurred  to  her  to  think  of  being  beautiful;  but 
when  she  smiled,  an  admirable,  adorable  expression  of 
sympathy  and  loyalty  endeared  her  countenance. 

While  Gyp  conversed  her  hands  dashed  about, 
sometimes  hovering  around  her  mouth,  sometimes 
drumming  nervously  on  any  convenient  object.  Her 
hands  were  those  of  a  worker.  They  were  capable 
and  strong.  And  what  a  racing  talker!  Yet  no  ego- 
tism nor  pose  nor  parade.  The  furthest  possible  from 
all  that. 

Gyp  was  a  tom-boy  whom  Aublet's  portrait  misrep- 
resented as  a  lady  of  quality.  A  romping  love  of  in- 
dependence was  the  dominant  trait  of  her  personality. 


Gyp  271 

A  Breton  born  in  Brittany  and  reared  in  the  careless 
Breton  way,  she  was  never  reconciled  to  the  artificial 
or  affected  conventions  of  society.  She  adored  her 
horse,  her  dog,  a  hair-in-the-breeze  isolation. 

Circumstances  introduced  her  as  a  madcap  girl  into 
the  frivolous  court  circles  of  the  Second  Empire,  mar- 
ried her  to  a  count,  and  associated  her,  just  before 
1870,  with  a  demoralized  and  decaying  governing  class. 
Her  healthy  Breton  instincts  rescued  her  from  the  gen- 
eral French  cataclysm.  She  saw  only  too  clearly  the 
vanity,  immorality,  ridiculousness  of  the  world  about 
her  and  revolted  without  absolutely  sundering  any 
liens.  She  chanced  finally  to  find  a  vocation  in  which 
she  could  let  her  vivacious  energies  prance  and  gallop. 
So  she  became,  behind  her  merciless  face-a-main,  a 
disillusioned  observer  of  the  sterile  and  senseless  high- 
life  to  which  she  belonged  and  of  which  she  was  not. 
She  grew  to  be  a  playful  cynic  who  lightly  enlivened 
her  cynicism  with  infantile  caricatures.  The  special 
literary  form  which  she  adopted  was  dialogue.  And 
Gyp's  dialogues  became  a  distinctive  feature  of  the 
Paris  literature  of  her  day. 

Her  penchant  for  caricatures  did  not  interfere  with 
her  retaining  an  aristocratic  optimism.  She  remained 
a  faithful  Imperialist  who  believed  that  the  curse  of 
her  country  was  the  Third  Republic.  As  the  reign  of 
Napoleon  Third  was  the  reign  of  her  own  illusioned 
youth,  the  imperial  past  appeared  gilded  to  her  as  she 
looked  back  upon  it  from  the  discolored  realities  of 
later  years.  By  birth,  temperament  and  tastes  she  was 
a  democrat  with  a   self-sacrificing;  affection   for  the 


272       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

lowest  classes.  But  she  had  become  an  aristocrat  by 
position  and  profession,  and  harmonized  her  popular 
love  of  liberty  with  her  Imperialism  by  believing  that 
the  people  would  be  better  off  under  a  dynastic  regime. 

At  the  commencement  of  her  literary  campaign  her 
risquee  attention  was  especially  attracted  by  the  dis- 
simulating veils  which  society  throws  around  mankind 
as  created  of  God.  Her  "Petit  Bob"  represented 
merely  her  own  boyish  frankness  and  impishness  vis-a- 
vis the  follies  of  the  social  habits  and  customs  which 
shameface  nature.  To  her,  amid  the  healthful  recrea- 
tions of  her  open-air  existence,  Nature  seemed  more 
innocent  than  all  these  fictions,  and  she  felt  that  dis- 
grace and  ridicule  should  fall  upon  those  "civilized" 
manners  and  practices  which  would  conceal  or  distort 
the  natural  while  freely  fostering  a  half-hidden  license. 

With  the  years  she  came  to  sketch  travesties  of  that 
vie  mondaine  which  first  amused  her  chiefly  for  its  own 
travesties  of  Nature.  With  her  everything  centered 
in  the  word  chic  which  characterized  a  combination  of 
the  gallant,  the  jaunty,  the  generous  and  the  aristo- 
cratic. 

With  this  watchword  chic,  she  valiantly  arabesqued 
a  crusade  against  bogus  creeds  and  parvenu  gods. 
Most  characteristic  was  her  "Gens  chics"  with  its 
slender  pages  of  indecorous  dialogue.  Its  colored 
hobby-horse  caricatures  of  Jews,  of  ugly  people  In  their 
robes  de  nuit,  of  graceless  young  women  whose  limbs 
seemed  poorly  affected  by  the  laws  of  gravitation. 

Gyp  was  the  first  one,  or  at  least  the  main  one,  to 
Introduce  into  Parisian  fiction  the  modern  free  girl  as 


Gyp  273 

a  desirable  institution,  so  to  speak.  Gyp  foreshadowed 
the  New  French  woman  who  has  promised  to  revolt 
against  her  race's  traditional  ideas  of  convent  captivity 
and  blind  ignorance,  ingenues  and  dots.  For  she  was 
a  revolutionist.  This  was  quite  fitting  in  her  as  a 
descendant  of  the  great  Mirabeau.  But  she  believed 
that  a  great  big  broom  would  come  into  play  and  the 
French  empire  be  swept  back  into  power. 

"Under  the  empire,"  she  urged,  "there  was  no 
misery.  To-day  what  a  dreadful  state  of  things !  I 
hate  the  parliamentarians.  I  know  the  men  in  Clichy 
and  St,  Ouen — all  those  quarters  there — I  go  riding 
there  with  my  dog.  I  love  the  people,  the  lowest  class, 
the  loafers,  the  tramps  and  all  that.  When  the  time 
comes  they  will  march  down  into  Paris  very  gayly — 
I'm  sure  of  it.  I've  never  been  molested  in  those  parts 
of  town,  though  my  coachman  did  get  stoned  at  St. 
Ouen  one  day  when  I  went  to  give  some  money  to  a 
ragpicker  whose  rent  I  pay.  But  I've  never  been 
harmed  or  approached.  What  they  lack  is  a  leader. 
I  know  we  would  be  apt  to  get  hurt — we  who  are  along 
the  edges.  I,  for  example — it's  true  I'm  not  rich — 
but  for  my  part  if  it  comes  to  that,  to  be  shot  dead  is 
not  a  disagreeable  death — it's  chic,  I  think.  I've  al- 
ways fancied  it  on  the  contrary.  I  would  try  my  very 
best  to  put  on  a  brave  face  if  they  were  to  put  me 
against  a  wall  and  shoot  me  down — with  a  Rothschild 
on  each  side  of  me." 


IX.    Jeanne  Hugo 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Jeanne  Hugo  is  the  daughter  of  Victor  Hugo's  elder  son, 
Charles.  His  widow  married  Charles  Lockroy,  prominent  in 
French  political  life.  She  married  Leon  Daudet,  the  son  of 
Daudet,  but  they  were  divorced.  As  a  child  she  inspired  much 
poetry  written  by  her  grandfather  whose  well-known  "I'Art 
d'etre  grandpere"  had  her  and  her  brother  as  its  subjects. 


JEANNE  HUGO 

INDEPENDENT  of  any  incidents  or  events  in  her 
own  career,  Jeanne  Hugo  will  ever  be  a  part  of 
the  Victor  Hugo  cult — a  cult  which  is  over- 
shadowed in  France  only  by  that  of  Napoleon.  Who 
has  not  read  the  volume  of  rimes  called  "I'Art  d'etre 
grandpere"?  Hugo's  beautiful  cradle  song  commenc- 
ing: 

Jeanne  sleeps;  she  leaves,  poor  angel  banished, 

was  running  in  my  head  as  I  went  one  bright  freezing 
February  afternoon  to  pay  my  respects  to  her  and  to 
her  mother  who  was  then  Madame  Lockroy.  The 
Lockroy  mansion  stood  on  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  a 
few  doors  below  the  house  where  the  celebrated  poet 
died. 

I  was  ushered  into  a  drawing  room  where,  before 
long,  Madame  Lockroy  and  her  attractive  daughter 
greeted  me.  The  latter  possessed  brimming,  trans- 
lucent eyes  in  which  her  grandfather  used  to  find  for- 
get-me-nots. 

Of  course  the  conversation  revolved  around  the  illus- 
trious grandfather  as  a  theme.  The  walls  about  us 
were  enriched  here  and  there  with  his  grotesque 
drawings. 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  Lockroy  enthusiastically,  "he 

277 


278       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

was  always  making  them  at  Guernsey.  He  rarely  used 
a  brush  or  paint — he  worked  with  ink  and  pen,  some- 
times with  a  match  and  a  great  deal  with  his  thumb. 
He  would  usually  begin  a  drawing  by  dropping  a  blot 
of  ink  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  Often  the  form  of  the 
blot,  with  its  rays  shooting  out,  suggested  his  subject — 
a  chateau  in  a  rainstorm,  a  church  and  spire  In  the  twi- 
light, or  something  of  the  kind. 

"So  he  developed  the  sketch,  with  chance  and  ca- 
price for  his  guides.  That  drawing  (pointing  to  a 
sketch) — you  see  brown  spots  in  it — that  is  coffee.  He 
frequently  turned  a  drop  or  two  of  coffee  on  the  inked 
paper,  for  he  was  apt  to  indulge  in  this  sport  when  fin- 
ishing his  cafe  noir   after  breakfast." 

"Grandpa  was  simply  angelic  to  me,"  said  the  daugh- 
ter. "I  have  none  but  the  happiest  memories  of  him. 
Nearly  all  those  little  incidents  versified  In  'I'Art  d'etre 
grandpere'  were  true — for  instance,  the  promenades 
with  his  two  'm.armots'  as  he  called  us.  Still  I  was 
never  locked  in  a  dark  closet  with  only  dry  bread  to 
eat — he  invented  that  story." 

You  remember  the  childlike  pleasantry  which  the 
poet  conceived  in  a  certain  poem  of  twenty-four  lines. 
"Jeanne"  had  been  imprisoned  in  a  dark  closet  because 
of  misconduct.  Her  grandpa — compassionate  soul — 
was  slyly  slipping  in  a  jar  of  preserves  to  her.  He 
was  discovered  by  one  of  the  law-and-order  party  of 
the  household  and  was  to  undergo  a  like  punish- 
ment for  this  abetting  of  lawlessness.  Whereupon 
"Jeanne,"  inspired  with  sympathetic  gratefulness, 
whispered  to  him: 


Jeanne  Hugo  279 

"Then  /  will  bring  you  some  preserves  1" 

"Grandpa  was  always  very  quiet — he  rarely 
laughed.  Here  is  the  only  photograph  in  the  world 
that  shows  him  laughing.  He  never  tried  to  sing  or 
hum  or  whistle  to  me,  nor  did  he  ever  recite  poetry. 
He  told  me  a  story  occasionally,  but  no  ghost  stories — 
no  tales  that  would  frighten  me." 

"Hauteville  House  at  Guernsey,  where  we  all  lived 
most  of  the  time,"  added  Madame  Lockroy,  "was  said 
to  be  haunted,  and  when  our  people  first  went  there — 
early  in  the  1850's — they  became  interested  in  spirit- 
ualism. I  do  not  think  grandpa  ever  really  beheved 
in  it. 

"He  rose  at  dawn,  poured  a  pitcher  of  cold  water 
down  his  back,  swallowed  a  raw  egg,  drank  some  cof- 
fee, and  then  worked  till  breakfast  time — noon.  His 
habits  were  English  rather  than  French.  He  did  not 
have  much  confidence  in  doctors  and  medicine,  but  he 
had  great  faith  in  hygiene  and  cold  water.  Afternoons 
he  read  his  mail,  trifled  about  the  house,  amused  him- 
self with  his  drawings,  and  from  five  to  seven  he  always 
went  for  a  walk." 

Jeanne  Hugo  will  remain  one  of  the  most  famous 
of  all  the  maids  Victor  Hugo  sang  of  in  his  twenty- 
five  volumes  of  verse — all  those  maids  whose  ABC, 
he  declared  in  one  of  his  poems  to  his  "Jeanne,"  "is  to 
have  white  arms,  to  be  beautiful,  to  dazzle  the  depths 
of  the  deepest  hearts  with  merely  a  nothing — a  bou- 
quet, a  ribbon,  a  smile — and  to  be,  by  the  side  of 
morose,  ungrateful  man,  gentler  than  the  azure,  rosier 
than  the  rose." 


X.    Jules  Lemaitre 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Jules  Lemaitre  died  in  1914  when  61  years  old.  He  was  of 
the  Impressionist  School  and  a  reactionar}'.  He  never  married. 
The  Academy  claimed  him  in  1895.  He  wrote  many  notable 
volumes  of  literary  criticism  in  the  unconventional  Impressionistic 
manner,  and  also  many  plays  and  stories. 


JULES   LEMAITRE 

JULES  LEMAITRE,  the  distinguished  French  lit- 
terateur, pretended  to  be  a  sort  of  rustic.  He 
once  said  to  the  present  writer,  "Que  voulez-vous? 
I'm  a  kind  of  peasant  in  reality,  I  suppose."  This 
came  forth  in  a  shy  voice,  with  a  long,  gentle  shrug 
of  his  somewhat  stooped  shoulders,  and  a  pleasant 
smile  as  if  frankly  avowing  an  undeniable  fact. 

He  was  not  tall  nor  slender.  His  eyes  were  small, 
bluish,  scintillating.  High  cheek  bones.  And,  at  forty, 
a  short,  thin  growth  of  reddish  whiskers.  His  manner, 
very  quiet,  somewhat  abashed.  At  first  nights  he  was 
apt  to  appear  carelessly  dressed,  his  top  hat  not  re- 
cently ironed.  He  seemed  to  prefer  there  to  efface 
himself  in  a  corner  with  some  friend  and  whisper  con- 
fidences of  amusement. 

He  used  to  write  in  an  atelier,  his  face  toward  the 
great  glass  front  of  a  light-flooded  apartment  spaced 
by  lofty  tapestries.  He  would  say,  "I  like  plenty  of 
light."  A  favorite  habit  was  to  walk  to  and  fro  there, 
smoking  cigarettes  very  deliberately.  His  literary 
penates  were  unpretending.  In  his  early  period  at 
least,  when  he  might  have  freely  been  called  a  disciple 
of  Kenan,  a  terra  cotta  bust  of  that  amiable  philos- 
opher surveyed  the  precinct  with  mild  eyes  of  serene 
skepticism.     On  the  table  where  Lemaitre  wrote  he 

283 


284       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

managed  to  rescue  a  small  writing  space  from  the  en- 
croachments of  piled-up  books. 

Nearby  might  stand  his  bicycle,   to  which  he  was 
addicted  in  his  prime.     Opening  out  from  the  atelier 
there  was  a  tiny  bandbox  of  a  garden,  high-walled, 
with  a  half  dozen  trees,   in  the  heart  of  Paris.     In 
summer  he  wrote  there  a  good  deal.     This  was  a  part 
of  his  pretended  role  as  a  son  of  the  soil.     "I  adore 
the  country."    This  meant  his  natal  valley  of  the  Loire. 
And  in  fact  Lemaitre,  like  Sarcey,  Bouguereau,  Hen- 
ner,  impressed  one  as  being  of  the  rural  districts — 
plain    manners,    simple    clothing,    usually    untrimmed 
beards.    Yet — strange  revealment  of  human  nature  ! — 
nothing   of   the    real   country   was   reflected   in   their 
works.     Lemaitre's   literary  output,    foremostly   criti- 
cal,   was    refined    and    difficult    to    the    last    boule- 
vard   degree    of    nicety    and    disquietude.      An    early 
leader  among  the  Impressionists,  he  was  at  once  non- 
chalant and  hard  to  suit  like  a  fine,  spoiled  lady  who 
is  both  generous  and  unsatisfied.     He  was  about  the 
first  in  modern   Paris  to  write  of  contemporaries  as 
seriously  and  permanently   as   if  they   were   ancients. 
He  thus  dignified  the  present.     And  for  this  he  de- 
served a  long  mark. 

His  plays,  fiction,  poetry,  did  not  succeed.  His 
potency  grew  into  the  form  of  dramatic  criticism.  Yet 
the  dramatic  element  was  not  really  in  him  as  his 
dozen  plays  attest.  His  literary  temperament  was 
somewhat  like  that  of  Anatole  France,  but  the  two  men 
were  wide  apart.  The  latter  had  the  power  and  magic 
touch  of  genius.     Lemaitre  could  only  offer  a  highly 


Jules  Lemaitre  285 

clever  and  polished  talent.  He  came  under  the  In- 
fluence of  titled  aristocracy  (understood  to  be  con- 
cretely feminine)  and  allied  himself  with  royalty,  no- 
bility, Catholicism  and  all  that  looks  backward  in 
France.  His  confrere  embraced  the  Republic  and 
looked  forward. 

This  social  coefficient  contributed  to  the  dual  result 
that  Anatole  France  is  a  world  figure  while  Lemaitre, 
starting  out  at  the  same  time  in  life  with  equal  oppor- 
tunity and  promise,  was  but  a  French  figure  and  on  the 
losing  side  at  that.  He  was  so  little  in  touch  with  the 
bent  of  his  race  that  his  excursions  into  politics  were 
like  feeble  fireworks  winding  up  in  a  Versailles 
fountain. 

Lemaitre  was,  in  short,  a  man  of  books,  of  the 
study,  of  subjective  analysis,  of  psychological  expert- 
ness  that  tended  practically  to  defeat  itself  or  end  in  a 
vacancy.  At  the  same  time  his  influence  in  Paris  was 
very  competent  and  very  considerable.  Speaking  of 
vacancy,  the  word  "blanc"  was  a  favorite  with  him, 
as  indicated  perhaps  by  the  titles  of  his  books  and 
plays.  And  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  avow  mod- 
estly, quizzically,  that  this  word  typified  his  career. 
For  what,  he  would  have  said,  is  "blanc"  after  all  but 
a  blank? 


xi.     Pierre  Loti 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Pierre  Loti,  pen  name  of  Julien  Viaud,  was  born  of  a 
Huguenot  family  in  1850  and  married  Judith  Gautier  in  1913.  The 
Academy  received  him  in  1891.  He  has  passed  his  life  as  a  naval 
officer  who  voyaged  extensively  in  the  orient.  He  is  a  playwright, 
but  is  celebrated  as  a  prolific  novelist  of  exotic  life  and  scenes. 


PIERRE    LOTI 

PIERRE  LOTI  is  a  short,  slender  man.  He  is 
very  quick,  lively,  in  his  movements.  This 
must  be  harmonized  with  the  silent  air  of  mel- 
ancholy which  envelops  his  face  and  characterizes  his 
personality.  His  look,  his  aura,  are  the  expression  of 
a  profound  and  hopeless  sadness  as  radical  and  in- 
eradicable as  that  of  any  German  philosopher  of 
pessimism. 

He  has  the  delicate,  quite  graceful  manners  of  a 
woman,  as  is  habitual  with  Frenchmen.  He  occupies 
little  space  with  his  motions  and  movings  about.  He 
has  a  quiet,  frail  voice.  And  then  there  is  his  famous 
shyness.  He  is  extremely  retiring.  He  is  naturally 
in  a  state  of  hesitation,  genuinely  more  or  less  abashed. 
This  personal  modesty,  it  will  be  remembered,  ex- 
plains how  he  comes  by  his  curious  pen  name.  At  the 
commencement  of  his  career  in  his  nation's  navy,  the 
energetic  young  Julien  Viaud  was  so  exceedingly  timid 
that  his  comrades  scornfully  called  him  Loti — the  name 
of  a  little  flower  in  India  which  discreetly  hides  itself. 
He  bravely  adopted  the  name  when  he  published  his 
first  book  in  1879  at  the  age  of  29. 

I  well  remember  his  extreme  diffidence  in  the  first 
three  or  four  years  when  he  appeared  as  a  member  at 
the  French  Academy.     It  is  true  he  rarely  attended, 

289 


290       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

living  far  from  Paris,  and  being  usually  kept  wide  of 
the  civilized  world  by  his  naval  duties.  He  was  then 
a  stranger  in  the  French  capital,  knowing  none  of  the 
great  literary  Gauls  with  whom  he  had  been,  almost 
without  notice,  called  upon  to  associate  among  the 
Forty  Immortals.  He  was  not  a  little  affrighted  by 
those  solemn,  austere  scenes  in  that  somber  little  tem- 
ple where  the  French  belletristic  gods  are  wont  to  as- 
semble as  on  Parnassus.  With  his  hair  worn,  in  re- 
venge, most  fiercely  in  the  pompadour  style  of  those 
days,  he  would  sit  solitary  and  alone  in  one  of  the 
empty  rows  of  consecrated  seats,  high  up  at  the  back 
in  the  assembly.  He  would  look  alarmed,  much  as  a 
small   squirrel   suddenly   imprisoned   in   a   cage. 

Much  curiosity  and  amusement  were,  indeed,  cre- 
ated in  Paris  when  Pierre  Loti  was  received  there  at 
the  Academy  in  1891  and  delivered  the  customary  ad- 
dress on  the  departed  member  whose  seat  he  was  tak- 
ing. He  had  come  from  the  briny  waters  of  southwest 
France.  He  had  dwelt  on  the  ocean  and  not  on  the 
Paris  boulevards.  He  had  sprung  quite  spontaneously 
and  by  himself  alone  from  the  sea  (could  we  so  appro- 
priately say  soil  in  his  case?)  of  French  literature.  He 
was  not  a  creature  of  salons,  nor  bred  on  critics'  books, 
nor  learned  in  the  pedantic  ways  of  the  banks  of  the 
Seine. 

Accordingly  he  approached,  at  the  Academy,  the 
whole  difficult  heights  and  "finicky"  finish  of  it  all  at 
one  most  appalling  swoop,  to  speak  loosely.  And  Paris 
laughed  politely  in  its  lace  sleeves  at  this  soaring  novice 


Pierre  Loti  291 

in  its  very  midst.  For  Loti,  in  his  reception  address, 
showed  that  he  was  quite  innocently  unaware  of  many 
unwritten  conventional  things  and  open  secrets  of  the 
literary  existence  in  Lutetia;  and,  with  a  perverse  con- 
trariety, he  emphasized  somewhat  elaborately  some 
things  that  every  one  there  had  known  ever  since  the 
cradle.  Paris  had  thus  refreshingly  caught  up  to  Its 
perfumed  bosom  a  rare,  exotic  species,  and  it  was  a 
diversion  for  a  time. 

But  Loti  was  very,  very  clever.  Modestly  and  very 
irreproachably  he  soon  made  the  most  of  everything — 
of  his  navy  existence,  of  his  museum  home  down  at 
Rochefort  on  the  sea,  and,  above  all,  of  his  beautiful, 
sad  sentimentality  which  has  always  distracted  French 
women  with  an  irresistible  love  for  his  melancholy  art 
and  his  melancholy  soul.  His  attractive  eyes  would, 
by  the  way,  emphasize  this  effect  with  the  fair  sex. 
They  are  his  finest  feature — pronounced,  of  a  brown 
temper,  large,  liquid  and  Innocent  as  a  gazelle's,  and 
all  the  more  striking  because  of  his  smallness  of  size. 

Loti  was  born  in  the  celebrated  French  Protestant 
city  of  Rochefort  where  he  has  always  lived  when  at 
home.  He  came  of  a  very  stiff  Protestant  family,  but 
he  has  lost  all  piousness  long  ago,  if  he  ever  had  any. 
He  has  no  religion  whatever.  Not  only  this,  but  his 
books  trouble  themselves  precious  little  about  what  Is 
moral  or  Immoral.  They  simply  go  right  along  un- 
heedlngly,  like  Nature.  In  this  he  is  the  true  tra- 
ditional sailor  who  has  a  wife  In  every  port,  exemplify- 
ing the  reputed  morals  of  the  wandering  sea-life,  and 


292       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

is  only  moved  with  profound  feelings  when  he  sails  out 
of  a  beloved  harbor  which  he  is  not  to  see  again  for 
five  years — or  ever. 

This  leads  up,  in  truth,  to  a  curious  fact.  Loti  is 
distinctly  a  woman's  author,  and  to  such  an  extent  that 
his  books  are  most  widely  translated  in  several  tongues, 
and  yet  they  are  bereft  of  any  religious  or  moral  senti- 
ments or  aspirations.  The  literary  Loti,  with  all  his 
blue  dreams  and  his  etherealized  thoughts,  has  never 
tried  to  make  any  one  better.  He  seems  to  have  been 
resolutely  determined  to  leave  the  world  precisely  as 
he  found  it,  only  better  known. 

He  early  saw  service  in  war,  having  made  the  cam- 
paign of  Tonkin,  which  incidentally  got  him  in  of- 
ficial disgrace  for  a  year.  This  was  caused  by  his 
writing  to  the  "Figaro"  criticisms  of  the  behavior  of 
the  French  soldiers  in  a  certain  action.  Loti  has  been 
"captain  of  vessel"  in  the  navy  since  1906.  His  life 
on  the  sea  is,  of  course,  the  great  distinguishing  mark 
of  his  literary  output.  Year  after  year  he  has  sat 
out  upon  his  ship's  deck  describing  right  at  hand  the 
marvelous,  unpaintable  sunrises  and  sunsets  of  the  trop- 
ics and  the  orient  as  has  no  other  man  in  French  lit- 
erature. And  in  the  far  off  ports  he  has  had  months 
of  leisure  to  describe  the  strange  women  of  dusky 
skins  whom  he  frankly  loved  in  French  sailor  mar- 
riage fashion.  He  approached  each  of  these  successive 
idyls  of  his  heart  with  an  aspect  of  sadness,  and  wept 
with  each  inamorata  in  genuine  tears  of  salt  when  he 
quitted  her  harbor.  Frankness,  gentleness,  beauty  and 
lack  of  any  profoundness  characterize  these  pictured 


Pierre  Loti  293 

episodes  and  inventions  of  his  wandering  career,  his 
mark  of  genius  lying  in  his  descriptions. 

Ideas  do  not  signalize  Loti's  shelfful  of  books.  He 
is  wanting  in  intellectuality  as  he  is  wanting  entirely 
in  humor.  He  is  a  poet,  a  painter,  of  colors,  of  sen- 
timent (always  of  a  feminine  tournure),  of  dissolving 
landscapes  and  seascapes  floating  in  a  wealth  of  gor- 
geous hues.  He  has  bathed  the  whole  Levant  in  the 
tears  of  sentimentality.  And  all  the  while  retro- 
spective regrets  at  the  futility  of  human  existence  have 
served  as  his  conventional  excuse.  He  is  thus  a  latter- 
day  Romantic,  representing  that  phase  of  French  Ro- 
manticism which  reached  out  to  the  orient.  Nearly 
always  dealing  with  impressions,  with  what  is  fugitive 
and  fleeting  in  aspect  like  his  amours,  and  with  what 
is  born  and  bred  of  memory  and  distance,  Pierre  Loti 
more  narrowly  belongs  to  the  Impressionist  period  of 
the  1890's,  when  the  pointillistes  and  all  such  kin 
abounded  in  France. 

He  is  a  great  romancer,  the  French  seeming  to  con- 
sider "Pecheurs  d'Islande"  (1886)  and  "Mon  frerc 
Yves  (1892)  as  his  two  best  works.  Loti  is  only  second- 
arily a  dramatist.  His  first  play — a  Huguenot  play — 
was  brought  out  in  Paris  in  1898.  And  apropos,  being 
quite  famihar  with  our  language,  he  has  done  the  Eng- 
lish race  the  honor  of  translating  "King  Lear"  into 
French,  with  the  aid  of  a  French  collaborator.  The 
translation  is  in  prose  and  very  accurately  done.  It  is 
characteristic  of  his  sad  nature  that  he  should  have 
selected  the  most  woe-begone  offering  in  our  literature. 

But  Loti's  instinct  is  descriptive,  not  dramatic.    He 


294       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

lacks  the  ramming  force,  the  impact,  the  strict  hard 
sense  of  compression  necessary  to  get  himself  with 
great  success  into  the  straitjackets  of  the  Paris  drama, 
with  all  its  rigid  and  pitiless  rules  and  regulations.  It 
is  true,  however,  that  he  has  devoted  a  good  deal  of 
attention  to  the  stage  in  his  latter  years.  He  did  a 
Chinese  drama,  for  instance,  with  Judith  Gautier,  the 
handsome  daughter  of  Theophile.  And  Antoine 
looked  upon  him  with  favor.  For  that  matter,  he  has 
that  knack  that  all  French  writers  seem  to  possess — 
the  knack  of  somi^how  being  able  to  write  a  very  good 
play.     The  clue  is  that  the  race  is  naturally  dramatic. 

It  is  by  reason  of  his  romances  that  Pierre  Loti  will 
live — his  exotic  romances  usually  of  the  equatorial 
lands  and  realms  of  the  hot  eastern  suns.  His  novel- 
ettes expressed  emotions  that  were  new  to  the  Parisi- 
ans. He  painted  the  barbaric  life  as  well  as  the  bar- 
baric aspects  of  oriental  countries,  waters  and  forests. 
He  always  did  this  with  a  large,  tender  and  fluid  brush, 
drenching  the  scenes  well  with  the  odorous  dews  of 
poetic  longings — distillations  that  are  the  fond  nour- 
ishment and  inextinguishable  pleasure  of  sentimental 
women  the  world  over. 

To  the  degree  that  M.  Viaud  is  a  woman's  writer, 
he  is  not  a  man's  author.  Men  generally  do  not  care 
for  his  books.  He  is  too  gracile,  too  feminine,  too 
slender.  He  is  out  of  touch  with  the  big  harsh  bru- 
talities which  most  men  have  to  be  acquainted  with; 
yet  since  we  have  spoken  the  word — is  there  or  is  there 
not  brutality  in  Loti's  works?  There  has  always  been 
an  argument  about  this,  or  about  the  precise  nature 


Pierre  Loti  295 

of  his  brutality.  Loti  certainly  does  present  a  bru- 
tality to  the  world  in  his  pages.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  the  pitiless,  of  the  hardened,  of  the  unheeding.  But 
it  is  a  woman's  kind  of  brutality,  not  a  man's.  It  is 
negative  rather  than  positive;  negligent  rather  than 
active.  His  Madame  Chrysanthemums  and  his  Ma- 
dame Prunes,  with  their  toyish  names,  impress  one  but 
lightly  as  with  life  in  a  boudoir.  To  hurt  their  feel- 
ings or  harm  their  lives  would  seem  only  something 
like  abusing  the  existence  of  a  butterfly. 

The  peculiarity  of  the  frank  unconcerned  sensuality 
in  Loti's  books — so  often  autobiographic — is,  in  fact, 
that  he  never  idealizes  love  and  he  never  brutalizes  it. 
What  makes  them  generally  so  acceptable  notwith- 
standing their  tropical  unconventionality  and  their  free 
airs  of  the  high  seas,  is  their  beautiful  style.  He  is  a 
true  French  artist.  It  is  his  manner,  not  his  matter, 
which  entices.  He  has  a  rare  and  irresistible  charm. 
Under  it  and  back  of  it  are  his  extremely  live  sensibili- 
ties and  an  imagination  that  delights  to  revel  in  the 
sensuously  lovely.  He  has  painted  over  and  over  again 
glorious  and  fragrant  universes  of  color  and  feel- 
ing that  nearly  all  of  us  can  only  dream  of  and  shall 
never  see. 


xii.     Rosita  Mauri 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

RosiTA  Mauri,  born  in  Spain  in  1856,  was  for  twenty  years, 
beginning  in  1879,  the  leading  star  in  the  Paris  Opera  ballet.  She 
made  her  debut  at  the  age  of  ten  and  danced  on  most  of  the  great 
continental  stages.  She  came  to  Paris  under  the  auspices  of 
Gounod.  She  was  the  most  skillful  dancer  de  caractere  of  her 
time.  She  later  became  an  Officer  of  Public  Instruction  under  the 
Government. 


ROSITA  MAURI 

MADEMOISELLE  MAURI  was  the  leading 
ballerine  in  Paris,  and  she  held  this  title  for 
two  decades! 

Presidents  of  the  Republic  came  and  went;  a  score 
of  ministries  rose  into  power  and  fell  from  grace; 
countless  singers  and  players  had  their  day  and  dis- 
appeared from  view  in  the  horizons  of  the  past;  but 
the  Mauri  shone  on  as  the  one  star  of  the  first  magni- 
tude in  the  constellation  of  the  Grand  Opera  ballet. 
Seeing  her  execute  the  Breton  jig  in  "la  Korrigane" 
of  Widor,  you  understood  one  reason  for  her  long 
reign.  It  was  the  perfection  of  brilliant  and  expert 
dancing  as  practiced  and  displayed  in  that  last  genera- 
tion of  the  nineteenth  century. 

I  used  to  drop  in  occasionally  on  Mademoiselle 
Mauri  when  I  was  making  a  little  study  of  ballet 
music  with  Vazquez  at  the  Opera.  She  lived  up  four 
flights,  just  by  the  rear  entrance  of  the  Opera.  An 
enraged  rat  terrier,  with  a  deafening  bark,  always  met 
me  at  the  door.  I  would  be  shown  into  the  bluish  re- 
ception room  where  two  fauteuils,  facing  each  other 
as  if  in  a  conversational  mood,  stood  before  a  closed 
grate.  Or  I  would  be  ushered  into  the  Louis  XV 
salon  where  the  chairs  and  sofas  were  dressed  in  white 
frocks.     Sometimes  the  Mauri  would  come  in  abun- 

299 


300       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

dantly  wrapped  in  a  white  shawl  or  a  nubia  in  the  at- 
tempt to  discourage  the  attack  of  a  violent  cold.  In 
such  an  amiable  plight,  her  rectangular  face  alone 
would  be  visible  among  her  encircling  draperies. 

She  was  ever  in  a  hurry  and  always  sat  on  the  edge 
of  her  chair.  But  she  chatted  most  frankly  and  freely 
of  her  art,  and  gave  voice  to  decided  opinions  about 
the  decadence  of  the  ballet,  the  lack  of  male  profes- 
sors of  the  dance,  and  so  on.  If  you  were  to  ask  her 
what  is  to  be  the  ballet  of  the  future,  she  would  per- 
haps imitate  the  humorous  Auber  by  replying,  "That 
which  is  danced  the  longest." 

She  appeared,  on  an  average,  twice  a  month  at  the 
Grand  Opera.  She  received  an  annual  salary  of  forty- 
five  thousand  francs  with  a  month's  leave  of  absence 
in  July  or  August.  Her  vacation  was  usually  passed 
at  her  country-place  near  Salis-de-Bearn  between  Ba- 
yonne  and  Pau,  or  at  some  watering  place  where  bac- 
cara is  played.  It  may  be  said,  though,  that  while  she 
loved  the  complications  of  baccara,  she  never  was  able 
to  comprehend  the  pooling  arrangements  under  which 
French  horse  races  are  run. 

Still,  withal,  she  seemed  economical  and  thrifty. 
She  lived  in  Paris  in  a  modest  noiseless  fashion.  She 
wrote  to  you  on  inexpensive  note  paper,  and,  follow- 
ing the  example  of  Fanny  Elssler  and  other  great  bal- 
lerines,  she  fell  into  casual  and  charming  misunder- 
standings with  French  orthography. 

She  spoke  French  with  a  strong  accent,  for  she  was 
Spanish,  having  been  born  near  Barcelona.  Her  father 
was  a  master  of  ballet.    She  had  just  the  form  for  a 


Rosita  Mauri  301 

famous  danseuse — ample  legs  and  a  light  body.  Her 
black  hair  was  worn  short  and  frizzed,  and  was  sille  at 
the  left  side.  On  the  nights  of  her  "premieres"  she 
drank  seven  or  eight  cups  of  black  coffee.  A  senti- 
mental Parisian  chronicler  once  augured  that  she 
would  fly  from  earth  at  the  setting  of  the  sun  on  a 
summer's  day. 

The  Mauri  offered  three  emphatic  traits  of  char- 
acter. There  was  her  energy.  She  was  indefatigable 
In  rehearsing  her  roles,  and  invariably  exhausted  her 
professor  and  colleagues  by  the  numberless  repetitions 
of  her  pas.  Then,  she  had  a  temper  of  her  own,  and 
was  said  to  rule  the  hosts  at  the  Opera.  When  her 
displeasure  was  aroused  during  a  rehearsal,  she  ap- 
peared to  be  transformed  Into  a  kind  of  gale,  and 
swept  through  the  flies  and  across  the  stage  like  one 
of  her  native  solanos.  At  the  same  time  she  had  the 
reputation  of  being  charitable  with  her  purse,  and  she 
always  spoke  well  of  her  companions.  As  a  result, 
one  never  heard  an  ill  or  a  jealous  word  of  her. 


xiii.    Frederic  Mistral 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Frederic  Mistral  died  in  1914  at  the  age  of  84.  He  passed 
his  life  in  his  native  south  of  France  and  was  the  leader  of  the 
Provengal  revival.  He  aided  in  founding  the  Society  of  Felibres 
in  1854.  They  became,  in  1876,  an  extended  organization  with 
him  as  chief.  His  most  widely  known  production  was  "Mireio" 
(1859)  from  which  was  taken  the  libretto  for  Gounod's  opera 
"Mireille"  (1864).  Mistral  was  the  author  of  an  immense  dic- 
tionary of  Provencal  tongues,  reviving  the  idiom  of  the  thirteenth 
century.     The  Nobel  prize  for  poetry  came  to  him  in  1904. 


FREDERIC  MISTRAL 

ON  Sabbath  afternoons  in  the  simple  village  of 
Maillane,  where  Frederic  Mistral  was  born, 
lived  and  died,  there  were  wont  to  promenade 
up  and  down  the  public  thoroughfare  two  columns  of 
people.  The  one  on  the  left  wore  deep  blue  cravats 
and  represented  those  daring  modern  fellows  who 
were  the  radicals  and  free-thinkers.  The  other  column, 
on  the  right,  comprised  those  adhering  to  the  ancient 
ideas  of  the  throne  and  the  altar.  They  wore  cravats 
of  light  blue. 

Mistral  was  to  be  found  among  those  wearing  the 
light  blue.  He  was  thus  true  to  his  wonderful  thir- 
teenth century  when  the  Troubadours  reigned  with 
their  graces  and  weaknesses,  their  romances  and  super- 
stitions, their  perennial  youth  and  early  decay.  In 
fact  Mistral  and  his  followers  set  up  a  real  kingdom 
of  letters,  sanctified  by  rites,  glorified  by  festivals,  and 
crowned  with  toasts  of  beflowered  rhetoric  and  rimes 
in  praise  of  that  lovely  dead  Provencal  past  of  which 
they  were  the  direct  inheritors.  Theirs  was  a  knightly 
round  table  out  in  plein  air,  graced  with  roses  and  love, 
embellished  with  sunshine  and  wine,  with  gay  laughter 
and  simple  faith,  in  a  realm  where  elderly  men  exu- 
berantly married  young  wives. 

Successive  Queens  of  the  Felibres  also  reigned — 

305 


3o6       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

women  so  good  to  look  upon  that  they  appear  always 
to  be  chosen  for  their  pulchritude — lustrous  midnights 
in  their  hair,  unfathomable  depths  in  their  soft  black 
eyes.  And  the  first  of  them  was  Mistral's  young  wife, 
to  whom  he  was  married  at  forty-six. 

His  appearance  brought  to  mind  some  Southern 
colonel.  He  had  the  emotionalism  and  lounging  ways 
of  our  own  warm  South.  His  soft  hat  tossed  on 
across  his  right  ear,  his  martial  mustache,  his  lordly 
goatee,  his  skin  tanned  by  a  thousand  suns,  his  hospit- 
able enthusiasm,  suggested  a  grandee  of  royal  girth 
and  spacious  manners,  ready  to  burst  forth  in  expan- 
sive mirth  or  quickly  to  shed  a  confiding  and  sympa- 
thetic tear. 

Much  has  been  written  to  show  his  hilarity  and  frol- 
icsomeness,  especially  at  the  time  when  Daudet  visited 
their  adored  Provence.  They  and  their  fellows, 
bearded,  loose-limbed,  with  the  jaunty  swagger  of  their 
warm  clime,  carried  on  "high  jinks"  amid  the  home 
folk  up  and  down  the  river  valley.  They  played 
pranks,  shouted  and  laughed,  absorbed  much  wine, 
and  reveled  in  the  tales  and  jests  of  their  boasted  local- 
ity. 

Some  conceive  of  Mistral  as  a  literary  aristocrat  and 
Overlord,  dwelling  in  a  home  rich  and  beautiful  with 
art  objects  suggesting  the  romantic  days  of  Aucassin 
and  Nicolette.  They  picture  him  as  a  luxurious  esthete 
and  master  dilettant  able  to  linger  for  months  over 
an  archaic  rime  and  toy  for  years  over  the  memories 
of  a  decayed  language  and  literature  that  had  appeared 
dancing    in    a    few    light-hearted    pages    of    history. 


Frederic  Mistral  307 

Others  are  led  to  think  of  Mistral  as  a  rustic  true  to 
his  peasant  mother,  and  living  in  a  cottage  containing 
two  rooms,  one  above  the  other,  and  companioned  by 
that  poor  man's  friend — a  dog. 

Though  he  was  king  of  the  southern  half  of  France 
— the  most  famous  and  beloved  man  there — he  pre- 
tended in  fact  to  be  a  sort  of  clodhopper.  In  his  vil- 
lage, not  far  from  the  medieval  Avignon,  of  royal  and 
papal  memories,  he  was  contented  for  a  long  lifetime 
to  receive  the  homages  of  the  world.  No  well-edu- 
cated person  thought  a  visit  to  that  province  complete 
without  having  paid  his  very  welcome  respects  to  the 
Chief  of  the  Felibres.  Citizens  of  distant  America 
even  were  numbered  in  his  circle  of  personal  interests. 
He  dedicated  a  poem  to  President  Roosevelt,  and  in- 
cluded Richard  Watson  Gilder  among  the  acknowl- 
edged friends  of  his  Society.  On  Mistral's  tomb,  built 
at  Aries  in  1907,  the  face  of  Roosevelt  is  one  of  the 
faces  carved  in  the  marble. 

Modest  in  his  life  of  provincial  triumphs.  Mistral 
seemed  to  have  been  born  under  a  lucky  star.  His 
evenly  modeled  hands  were  spoken  of  as  indicating  his 
tranquil  life.  Good  of  heart,  manly,  he  had  the  full 
leisure  to  love  all  that  was  noble  and  beautiful.  Hav- 
ing fallen  heir  to  sufficient  means  from  his  farmer 
father,  he  was  always  free  from  economic  pressure  and 
could  thus  slowly  do  a  worthy  work  that  would  have 
been  impossible  to  those  of  the  pen  who  see  the  prowl- 
ing wolf  whenever  they  peek  out  of  doors. 

To  labor  twenty  years,  eight  hours  a  day,  on  a 
production  as  little  salable  as  a  Provengal  dictionary, 


3o8       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

though  unique  and  valued  as  it  is,  required  an  assured 
ease  of  purse.  This  toil  of  love,  picking  up  fragments 
of  one's  ancient  native  idiom  from  fisher  folk,  and  old 
housewives  at  their  daily  tasks,  demanded  an  occupied, 
gossiping  idleness  such  as  belonged  only  to  a  loquacious 
Felibre.  With  a  dallying  beauty  and  simpleness  could 
he  write:  "If  joy  comes  not  to-day,  assuredly  it  will 
come  to-morrow.  And  as  soon  as  the  violet  breathes 
her  perfume,  the  butterfly  will  flutter  to  her;  then  will 
the  maiden,  like  a  ripening  fruit,  come  to  her  lover; 
and  the  crystal  dewdrop  will  be  as  radiant  as  a  dia- 
mond." 

The  crowning  of  his  literary  fame  was  precisely  his 
early  poem  "Mireio"  (1859),  from  which  came  forth 
the  libretto  for  Gounod's  famous  opera  of  "Mireille." 
One  may  well  say  that  it  is  the  most  popular  opera 
comique  in  France  save  "Carmen"  and  "Mignon." 
One  of  the  toasts  drunk  by  the  Society  of  Felibres  was: 
"I  drink  to  Mireille,  the  most  beautiful  mirror  in 
which  Provence  looks  at  herself." 

Only  a  few  times  did  the  king  of  the  Provencals 
leave  his  white,  sun-baked  roads  and  the  vineyard 
shores  of  his  gallant  river  Rhone.  A  trip  to  Switzer- 
land, one  to  Italy,  a  few  rare  journeys  to  Paris  as 
an  uncrowned  rustic  ruler  in  that  great  republic  of 
letters — these  sojourns  but  attested  to  the  loyal  de- 
votion and  local  pride  with  which  he  insisted  on  dwell- 
ing firmly  at  home.  Logical  in  his  pride  of  provincial 
attitude,  he  declined  to  become  one  of  the  Immortal 
Forty  on  principle.  All  that  was  too  far  away — in 
Paris. 


Frederic  Mistral  309 

While  it  is  to  be  recorded  that  he  succeeded  in  a 
highly  enviable  measure,  he  at  the  same  time  failed 
in  part.  Though  his  literary  labors  were  of  undeniable 
profit  and  permanence,  his  career  did  not  swerve  the 
great  main  modern  course  of  French  literature.  In- 
stead of  dipping  back  toward  Provencal  forms  and 
fashions  as  Mistral  might  have  wished,  it  showed  de- 
cided signs  of  a  contrary  bent,  leaning  rather  to  the 
contemporary  kingdom  of  slang  and  tramp  philosophy, 
as  witness  Richepin's  "la  Chanson  des  gueux."  The 
Troubadours  were  royal  tramps,  but  the  latter-day 
Weary  Willies  are  the  hobos  of  a  democracy  concern- 
ing which  Mistral  had  small  understanding  and  sym- 
pathy. With  all  his  exuberant  tendencies  that  belong 
to  his  "boiling  South,"  he  had  a  grave  and  phlegmatic 
side,  and  could  expatiate  at  length  on  the  sadness  and 
shame  of  present  times.  His  unfriendliness  to  mo- 
dernity was  shown  by  his  favoring  the  use  of  the  guillo- 
tine and  disfavoring  the  modern  ascendancy  of  femi- 
nism which  appeared  to  mean  to  him  the  descent  to- 
ward effeminacy. 

Mistral — last  of  the  veritable  Troubadours — was 
truly  gifted  in  that  he  was  an  erudite  philologist  who 
possessed  a  rare  creative  sense  of  poetic  form.  His 
name  had  become  greater  than  any  direct  appeal  of  the 
output  of  his  pen;  for  only  to  the  learned  few  does 
the  bent  of  his  labors  mean  anything.  It  was  to  the 
credit  of  this  not  ungrateful  or  ungenerous  age  that  he 
reaped  all  the  rewards  of  fame  from  a  public  which 
understood  practically  nothing  of  his  work.  While  he 
humbly  pushed  away  scholastic  honors  from  himself, 


310       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

they  only  crowded  the  more  thickly  about  his  brow. 
The  very  nature  of  his  undertaking  disarmed  criticism. 
There  was  none  of  his  compatriots  who  really  cared 
to  say  him  nay,  though  he  persisted  in  not  using  the 
national  language  except  in  translating  his  own  books. 
He  fairly  earned  his  share  of  the  Nobel  prize  in 
1904,  with  the  proceeds  of  which  he  founded  a  Pro- 
vencal museum  at  Aries.  A  few  months  before  his 
death  he  appropriately  wrote:  "The  days  that  grow 
chill  and  the  swelling  sea — all  things  tell  me  that  the 
winter  of  my  life  has  come,  and  that  I  must  without 
delay  gather  my  olives  and  offer  the  virgin  oil  on  the 
altar  of  God." 


xiv.     Georges  Pellissier 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Georges  Pellissier  was  born  in  1852  and  died  during  the  war 
period.  He  was  a  valuable  literary  critic  whose  life  was  hidden 
in  his  analytical  volumes.  He  violently  attacked  Shakespeare's 
reputation  as  a  playwright. 


GEORGES  PELLISSIER 

WHEN  chatting  with  Alphonse  Daudet  one 
morning,  the  name  of  Pellissier  was  men- 
tioned. Daudet,  noticing  that  I  appeared 
to  be  acquainted  with  PeUissier,  said : 

"Let  me  tell  you  what  I  guess  about  him,  for  I  do 
not  know  him  and  I  know  no  one  who  does.  I  merely 
judge  from  his  article  on  'la  Petite  Paroisse,'  but  I'm 
pretty  sure  I  am  right.  He  is  a  Protestant  or,  at  least, 
of  a  Protestant  family — his  father  may  be,  or  may 
have  been,  a  pastor.  You  see  there  was  a  certain  taste 
of  stringent  morality  biting  that  article.  I  don't  mean 
that  I  think  M.  Pellissier  is  orthodox:  I  mean  an  en- 
franchised, liberal  Protestant.  I  fancy  he  lives  alone, 
works  alone,  mixes  little  with  the  world,  that  he  tries 
to  escape  personal  influences,  prejudices,  and  entangle- 
ments in  order  to  be  perfectly  just  as  a  literary  appre- 
ciator  amid  the  silence  of  books  instead  of  the  noise 
of  the  public. 

"He  is  not  after  favors  and  is  prodigal  of  none. 
He  expects  severe  consideration,  and  does  not  wish 
to  be  chary  of  encouragement.  Honesty,  rationalism, 
humaneness — those  are  about  his  guiding  words.  And 
another  thing — he  is  not  chauvinistic.  In  general,  our 
French  literary  censors  are  not  familiar  with  other 
modern  countries  and  literatures,  and  consciously  or 

313 


314       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

unconsciously  look  down  on  them.  Not  so,  M,  Pellis- 
sier.  Some  influence  or  circumstance  in  his  life — I 
don't  know  what — has  opened  him  up  to  a  sort  of 
cosmopolitan  forbearance — to  an  international  clem- 
ency of  view.     Now — how  near  right  am  I?" 

Daudet  guessed  correctly  in  outline.  Pellissier's 
father  was  a  venerable  Protestant  pastor  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine.  The  family  was  deistically  re- 
ligious and  strongly  Republican.  Consequently  the  son 
was  reared  abreast  of  the  best  commanding  influences 
(not  essentially  Catholic)  which  have  slowly  shaped 
the  destinies  of  France  to-day  under  the  Third  Re- 
public. He  was  of  that  excellent  class  of  Parisian 
people  who  read  the  "Temps"  and  the  "Journal  des 
Debats"  and  applaud  the  plays  of  Augier.  He  mar- 
ried a  Prussian  lady  who  was  educated  in  Paris.  Ger- 
man as  well  as  French  was  used  currently  by  his  chil- 
dren, although  Pellissier  only  spoke  his  native  tongue. 
In  this  way  his  cosmopolitanism,  which  Daudet  re- 
marked, may  be  accounted  for. 

Pellissier  used  to  be  at  home  in  the  silent  depths 
of  Passy  just  on  the  verge  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
He  lived  nearly  opposite  where  Brunetiere  lived  before 
the  latter  took  his  apartments  in  the  rue  de  Rennes  to 
be  near  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes"  and  the  Sor- 
bonne.  Pellissier  shunned  society  and  companionship 
save  that  of  his  family  and  his  bicycle.  He  divorced 
himself  from  his  confreres,  the  theater,  public  galleries, 
salons — Paris,  in  a  word;  for  he  believed  that  a  liter- 
ary critic  needs  to  know  books,  not  careers,  personali- 
ties, gossip.      From  analogous  motives  he  never  at- 


Georges  PelTissier  315 

tempted  verse,  playmaking,  fiction,  or  general,  non- 
literary  subjects.  Alone  of  all  his  contemporary 
French  reviewers,  he  was  first  and  last  a  critic  of  let- 
ters. He  did  not  parade,  courted  no  external  ambi- 
tions, hid  his  life,  and  tried  to  keep  the  lives  of  his 
confreres  hidden — even  from  himself.  He  had  re- 
fused a  chair  at  the  Sorbonne  because  he  felt  that 
there  was  a  certain  "snobisme,"  as  he  expressed  it 
to  me,  in  its  atmosphere. 

His  maiden  duties  as  a  professor  of  rhetoric  were 
exercised  at  Fontenay-aux-Roses — that  well-known 
village  south  of  Paris.  Here  he  wrote  his  first  book — 
the  standard  one  that  gave  him  at  once  a  high  reputa- 
tion:  "Le  Mouvement  litteraire  aux  XIX.  siecle." 

I  used  to  have  the  privilege  of  slipping  to  Passy  on 
the  train  and  talking  with  Pellissier  about  books  of 
the  day.  He  would  sit  in  beslippered  ease  and  smoke 
cigarettes  in  a  slightly  nervous  manner  while  formu- 
lating literary  judgments  in  the  conversational  French 
style.  He  conversed,  as  he  wrote,  with  a  sober  strict- 
ness of  expression,  firm,  direct  and  above  all  logical — 
few  figures  of  speech,  little  imagery  and  color.  His 
aim  was  the  truth,  rational,  moral,  piercing,  contract- 
ing truth,  not  rounding  beauty,  not  expanding  indul- 
gences or  insinuating  entertainment.  Trenchant  was 
he  and  lucid,  strengthening  and  sincere.  This  is  what 
you  do  not  ask  of  Parisian  reviewers  as  a  rule.  He 
preferred  to  be  serious  rather  than  conspicuous  at  the 
risk  of  being  frivolous  or  misleading. 


XV.     Edouard  Rod 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Edouard  Rod  (pronounced  rode)  was  born  in  Switzerland  in 
1857  and  died  in  1910.  He  lived  latterly  in  Paris.  He  was  an 
editor,  professor  of  comparative  literature,  novelist  and  critic.  He 
lectured  in  America  in  1899.  He  took  up  early  with  Schopen- 
hauer's pessimism  and  Wagner's  music  and  published  many 
volumes.  He  was  a  serious  contemplator  and  examiner  of  anxious 
problems  concerning  the  soul  and  human  destiny. 


EDOUARD  ROD 

EDOUARD  ROD  lived  in  company  with  ideas. 
Life  came  to  him  second-handed.  His  exist- 
ence was  neutralized  into  his  classroom,  his 
study,  his  indoctrinations.  His  personality  was  not 
original,  diversified  nor  piquant.  It  was  sane,  regular 
and  praiseworthy  even  to  commonplaceness.  There 
were  no  pegs  on  which  to  hang  one's  human  interest. 

On  the  only  occasion  I  ever  met  him  he  was  afflicted 
with  a  severe  cold.  He  was  bundled  up,  stuffed  up, 
blinked  up.  Letters  and  life  seemed  through  his  eyes 
and  feelings  to  be  clogged  up,  barred  off  or  at  any  rate 
dammed.  As  often  as  I  have  thought  of  him  since, 
that  impression  has  revived  and  I  have  always  as- 
sociated stuffiness  and  uncomfortableness  with  his  liter- 
ary legacy  and  outlook.  This  may  illustrate  the  de- 
fect or  danger  of  Sainte-Beuve's  medium  of  personality 
in  estimating  the  output  of  an  author. 

This  trivial  incident  of  Monsieur  Rod's  rheum, 
however,  chances  to  fit  in,  in  a  way,  with  his  innate  and 
incurable  pessimism.  Yet  his  pessimism  seemed  rather 
a  sort  of  indigestion  of  the  very  good  things  of  earth. 
Success  and  prosperity  were  the  plats  from  which  he 
partook  at  the  banquet  of  life,  and  still  he  could  not 
but  ask  constantly.  Why  eat ?    Why  enjoy  ?    Why  live  ? 

Far  lighter  and  pleasanter  than  his  quasi  masters 

319 


320       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

Schopenhauer  and  Leopardi,  he  was  of  plainer,  more 
substantial  stuff  than  the  typical  Parisian  skeptics  of 
his  day.  One  need  not  look  to  him  for  any  discon- 
solate force,  intensity,  isolated  grandeur  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  for  any  Pyrrhonic  brilliancy  and  irony. 
He  was  never  an  ironist,  though  he  belonged  to  the 
little  circle  of  pungent  jesters  in  the  sanctum  of  the 
"Journal  des  Debats."  In  truth  he  was  a  genuine  pro- 
fessor rather  than  a  genuine  literary  man,  and  most 
truly  belonged  with  Brunetiere,  Faguet  and  the  others 
in  the  gray,  somber,  doctrinal  portals  of  the  "Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes." 

Born  and  reared  on  the  banks  of  the  azure  Leman 
with  his  face  toward  both  Germany  and  France,  Mon- 
sieur Rod  finally  decided  to  be  French.  In  preferring 
not  to  develop  the  exotic  within  him,  and  thus  not  to 
add  a  distinctly  new  segment  of  horizon  to  the  realm 
of  French  letters,  he  may  have  missed  his  greatest  op- 
portunity. If  he  had  held  himself  aloof  from  and 
discussed  Paris  in  his  volumes  as  he  held  himself  aloof 
from  and  discussed  his  theses,  he  might  have  originated 
a  more  valuable  and  entertaining  work. 

His  hybrid  nature  partly  explains  that  certain  steril- 
ity which  nearly  always  marks  his  ideas,  impulses  and 
productions.  For  instance,  he  neutralized  the  Calvin- 
istic  element  within  him  by  believing,  like  a  royalist 
Frenchman,  that  the  Holy  See  is  on  the  whole  suffi- 
ciently representative  and  reformative.  If  one  had 
objected  in  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Rod  to  the  ef- 
facement  of  the  individual  in  the  uniformity  of  Roman- 
ism, he  would  have  responded  by  objecting  to  the  per- 


Edouard  Rod  321 

sonal  wrangllngs  rife  in  the  individualistic  Protestant 
parishes  such  as  he  was  familiar  with  in  his  cherished 
canton  of  Vaud. 

His  stories  are  to  be  distinguished  from  the  usual 
French  novel  by  the  fact  that  they  are  "clean";  yet, 
highly  alive  to  the  moral  demands  of  the  Protestant 
races,  he  was  under  the  impression,  as  he  told  me,  that 
the  "immorality"  of  his  fiction  was  the  reason  why  it 
had  not  found  a  foothold  in  England  and  America. 
As  for  his  own  attitude  toward  religion,  he  would 
believe,  but  could  not — like  almost  every  psychologist 
of  the  Renan  group.  He  was  a  "Calvinist  free 
thinker." 

His  pronounced  consciousness  of  mot,  the  source  or 
sign  of  his  as  well  as  of  all  pessimism,  was  neither  exag- 
gerated, eccentric  nor  ailing.  It  was  intellectual  dilet- 
tantism. His  debuts  in  literature  were  extremely 
Naturalistic,  but  he  soon  revolted  against  Zola  and 
willingly  classified  himself  with  Bourget  and  Barres. 
He  was  legitimately  the  truest  son  of  Goethe  to  be 
found  in  the  family  of  contemporary  French  authors. 
He  characterized  Goethe  as  the  father  of  modern 
dilettantism,  and  indicated  himself  when  he  defined 
a  goetheen  as  one  who  is  "above  all  intelligent  or  .  .  . 
comprehensive"  because  he  embraces  subjects  rather 
than  penetrates  them,  interests  himself  in  everything 
for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  all  his  faculties,  yet  gives 
himself  wholly  to  nothing; — who  is,  in  brief,  largely 
tolerant  and  sympathetic  because  he  is  indifferent. 

Thus  Monsieur  Rod's  dilettanism — his  rather  ple- 
thoric,   after-dinner    indolence    and    indifference — as- 


322        French  Essays  and  Profiles 

sumed  the  guise  of  intellectual  luxury.  Now  and  then 
he  exclaimed  against  such  a  fate:  "Ah,  thrice  cursed  is 
he  who  has  touched  the  damned  dilettantism!"  But 
the  die  was  cast  and  nothing  was  left  to  him  except  to 
make  the  most  of  it.  And  that  he  did  with  very  good 
grace,  for  that  matter.  After  all,  like  his  own  Michel 
Teissier,  he  loved  his  ailment. 

Monsieur  Rod  was  born  in  1857,  and  studied  at 
Berne  and  Berlin  and  at  the  Sorbonne.  His  belletristic 
career  was  divided  between  Paris  and  Geneva.  He  re- 
sided for  quite  a  time  on  the  slopes  of  the  Seine  at 
Auteuil  where  in  his  salon  on  Sunday  afternoons  one 
could  meet  many  of  the  literary  celebrities  of  France. 
He  was  a  rather  large  man,  fine  looking,  polished  in 
manner,  companionable.  His  voice  was  very  soft  and 
pleasant,  and  he  had  talents  as  a  conferencier.  He 
never  liked  teaching  and  apparently  cared  little  for  the 
title  of  erudite.  He  studied  seriously  many  varied  sub- 
jects such  as  Wagner's  estheticism,  contemporary  Ital- 
ian literature,  Pre-Raphaelitism;  yet  he  did  not  per- 
mit these  exotic  chiaroscuros  and  perspectives  to  en- 
rich and  beautify  the  grisaille  pages  of  his  fiction. 


xvi.     Rosny  the  Elder 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

RosNY  THE  Elder  is  the  literary  name  of  Joseph  Henry 
BoEX  with  whom  his  younger  brother  Justin  collaborated  under 
the  combined  name  of  J.-H.  Rosny.  He  is  a  Naturalistic  novelist 
who  was  bom  in  Brussels,  lived  in  London,  then  settled  in  Paris. 
He  is  a  member  of  the  Goncourt  Academy.  His  fiction  portrays 
Socialism,  the  Salvation  Army  and  kindred  themes,  dealing  with 
the  life  of  the  poor  and  the  laboring  classes.  He  opposed  the 
extreme  Realism  of  Zola.  Rosny  is  not  given  to  detail.  He  is 
interested  mainly  in  effective  but  uncomplicated  presentations  of 
characters  and  subjects. 


ROSNY  THE  ELDER 

TAKEN  altogether  Rosny  is,  in  his  manner,  di- 
dactic with  tolerance,  digressive  while  being 
characteristically  logical  and  lucid,  concen- 
trated and  precise  without  closing  to  the  future  or  the 
possible  any  of  the  windows  of  his  soul. 

It  was  at  a  little  soiree  of  M.  Durand,  the  husband 
of  Henry  Greville,  that  I  met  the  elder  Rosny.  I  had 
taken  him  for  a  college  professor  as  I  noticed  him 
conversing,  in  an  earnest,  absorbed,  strenuous  way, 
across  the  room.  His  black  beard  and  hair  contrasted 
with  the  dead  pallor  of  his  skin;  he  had  the  erudite 
stoop;  he  wore  that  unhealthy  air  which  comes  from  a 
congestion  of  study.  In  venturing  to  chat  with  him 
later  in  the  evening,  I  confirmed  his  instructing,  persua- 
sive manner  in  talking,  and  his  care  in  being  perfectly 
clear.  He  uses  English  well,  for  he  long  lived  in  Lon- 
don, and  married  an  English  lady. 

When  I  went  into  the  refreshment  room  at  M. 
Durand's,  the  fragmentary  conversation  was  displaying 
couleurs  de  rose,  as  is  natural  under  such  circumstances, 
and  Rosny  was  beginning:  "I  am  an  optimist  because" 
— but,  unfortunately,  he  was  interrupted  at  this  point 
by  incomers  who  inadvertently  silenced  the  sentence, 
I,  for  one,  was  sorry  at  the  time  not  to  learn  Rosny's 
reasons  for  his  optimism,  since  it  was  the  fashion  with 

32s 


326       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

the  younger  literary  Frenchmen  of  the  epoch  to  be 
dyed  in,  or  tinctured  with,  pessimism. 

It  happened  that  I  came  downstairs  with  him  that 
night  in  the  rue  de  Crenelle.  I  saw  him  wrap  himself 
thickly  in  his  overcoat  and  turn  south  on  his  way  to 
his  home  in  the  rue  Didot  through  the  empty,  lone- 
some streets  of  southwest  Paris — off  toward  the 
Pasteur  Institute  and  among  the  anarchists  (now  ex- 
anarchists)  whom  Rosny  had  studied  so  carefully.  I 
should  have  feared  this  journey  at  such  a  late  hour,  for 
there  were  ruffians  in  that  homely,  half-despairing 
quarter  of  the  city. 

Rosny  wrote  in  collaboration  with  a  junior  brother, 
and  their  fiction  was  put  forth  under  the  style  of  J.-H. 
Rosny.  Personally  they  did  not  court  publicity.  No 
photograph  of  them  was  to  be  found  anywhere,  and 
their  names  were  rarely  mentioned  in  the  press. 

Two  or  three  weeks  afterward,  Rosny  the  Elder 
honored  me  by  a  call  one  evening.  He  told  us  of  the 
story  he  was  writing  about  the  invisible  beings  that, 
he  fancied,  live  among  us  on  this  planet,  rub  shoulders 
with  us,  and  exist  for  one  another  and  not  for  us,  as 
we  exist  for  one  another  and  not  for  them — a  sort  of 
Xipehuz. 

I  was  tempted  to  ask  him  who  had  written  the  best 
essay  on  the  Rosny  novels.  "M.  Pellissier,"  he  re- 
plied. "His  essay  is,  on  the  whole,  just.  It  notes  my 
real  defects  as  a  writer  and  appreciates  my  good  points. 
But — I  don't  know  why  it  is  or  should  be  so — the 
critics  take  too  long  to  say  a  little.  At  least  it  seems 
so  to  me.  And  then  they  are  apt  to  magnify  your  short- 


Rosny  the  Elder  327 

comings  and  minimize  your  commendable  qualities. 
They  will  remark,  'He  is  not  a  bad  fellow  and  does 
creditable  work,'  in  one  paragraph,  and  then  detail 
and  enlarge  upon  your  failings  in  ten  paragraphs. 
This  leaves  inevitably  a  disproportioned,  and  there- 
fore unfair,  impression  in  the  mind  of  the  reader." 

Rosny  thought  that  the  ancient  classics  and  the  Louis 
XIV  classics  assume  too  important  a  role  in  French 
education  and  in  French  civilization.  For  him,  France 
is  too  univer  sit  aire.  He  was  forced,  as  a  boy,  to  read 
only  French  books  of  the  17th  century.  There  were 
no  others  in  his  father's  library. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Rosny  is  discursive  in  his  con- 
versation and  oral  discussions.  He  is  often  obliged 
to  force  himself  to  return  to  his  subject,  and  this  leaves 
him  visibly  dissatisfied  that  the  hours  are  so  short  and 
words  so  exclusive  and  imperfect.  For  his  brain  teems 
with  ideas  and  conceits,  and  with  the  most  recently 
ascertained  or  adopted  facts  in  many  branches  of 
knowledge.  Each  suggestion  awakes  a  thousand  other 
suggestions  in  his  mind;  each  fancy  points  to  a  thou- 
sand other  fancies  across  his  vision. 

He  longs  to  give  voice  to  it  all — to  delve,  to  roam, 
to  explore,  to  soar ;  but  Time  is  ever  nudging  his  elbow 
and  he  must  hurry  away  to  whatever  narrow  task  he 
happens  to  have  in  hand.  Rosny  is  one  of  the  few 
great  Frenchmen  I  ever  met  who  are  manifestly  rushed 
in  something  like  our  American  fashion — never  begin- 
ning, never  ending,  never  really  halting. 

As  my  lamplight  shone  on  his  face  from  my  study 
table  that  evening,  I  watched  his  wide  eyes  and  his 


328       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

bloodless,  intellectual  face.  It  is  very  broad  at  the 
temples,  in  indication,  I  suppose,  of  his  comprehensive 
mind.  He  has  a  way  of  smacking  his  lips  a  little — 
drawing  them  together  and  apart — as  he  attempts  to 
express  exactly  his  thought. 

One  afternoon  a  month  later,  he  sent  me  a  copy 
of  "I'Autre  Femme."  I  read  it  the  same  day.  In  it 
the  two  brother  analysts  deal  with  Woman  from  the 
French  standpoint  still  (i.  e.,  husband,  wife  and 
mistress),  but  with  the  fact  in  view  that  the  Teutonic 
races  are  the  most  aggressive  and  prolific  and  yet  tend 
to  monogamy. 

This  novel  is  a  firm,  transparent,  psychological 
study  of  the  terrible  moral  effect  of  a  liaison  on  the 
lover,  his  wife  and  their  children.  The  subject  is  the 
menage  of  the  wife,  and  not  that  of  the  mistress  as 
is  the  rule  in  Parisian  fiction.  The  erring  lover  is,  in 
this  case,  an  intelligent,  serious  man  who  finds  his  mon- 
ogamic  instinct  at  war  with  his  polygamous  instinct. 
In  his  endeavor  to  reason  to  a  valid  and  self-satisfying 
conclusion,  he  inevitably  fails,  and  falls  back  on  the 
traditional  argument  which  he  recognizes  as  stupid — 
namely,  "the  right  of  man  because  he  is  a  man."  This 
volume  is  a  modest  link  in  the  modern  evolution  of 
the  monogamic  impulse  in  French  literature. 


xvii.    Victorien  Sardou 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

ViCTORiEN  Sardou  died  in  1908  at  the  age  of  77.  He  entered 
the  Academy  in  1878.  He  would  likely  be  called  the  most  cele- 
brated and  influential  dramatist  of  modem  times,  Ibsen  excepted. 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU 

SARDOU  was  une  vraie  ficelle — a  wise  fox. 
Madame  Bernhardt  was  likewise  one.  Indeed 
they  were  the  most  grand  and  conspicuous  ex- 
amples of  their  time.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  which 
could  have  called  the  turn  on  the  other  in  a  real  con- 
test. But,  in  fact,  through  all  the  wars  and  scrimmages 
of  the  drama  and  theater  in  Paris,  they  remained 
splendid  friends.  I  certainly  felt  a  bit  eerie  one  day 
when  he  suddenly  inquired,  "Do  you  know  how  Sarah's 
toothache  is  that  she  had  on  Thursday?"  To  have 
seen  her  and  him  rehearsing  together  must  have  been 
a  sight  for  the  gods. 

A  familiar  view  of  him  by  the  public  was  to  be  had 
when  he  was  driven  through  the  streets  on  the  way 
to  or  from  a  rehearsal  along  the  sumptuous,  gloomy 
fagades  of  the  Louvre,  his  top  hat  tilted  on  the  back  of 
his  head,  a  white  neckerchief  trying  to  stifle  him,  his 
arm  reaching  out  now  and  then  in  a  dramatic  reach  to 
give  combativeness  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

Sardou  was  one  of  the  very  few  international 
Frenchmen.  He  was  a  cosmopolitan.  He  somehow 
always  belonged  to  the  imperial  reign — the  Second 
Empire.  He  had  an  ambitious  outlook  toward  the 
outer  and  greater  world,  like  the  Napoleons.  Mag- 
nificent size,  loud  trumpetings,  the  power  and  grandeur 

331 


332       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

which  dazzle  and  win  the  vast  common  multitudes,  the 
gloire  together  with  something  of  its  ever-sounding 
emptiness — this  was  reflected,  reechoed,  in  the  showy 
plays  of  the  later  Sardou.  He  antedated  the  Third 
Republic  and  was  not  strictly  of  it  or  with  it. 

It  was  a  fine  treat  to  see  him  sweeping  down  his 
study,  thundering  against  the  modern  regime — "je  vais 
les  embeter! — vous  allez  voir!" — "I  am  going  to 
stump  them — you  will  see !"  He  was  a  militant  gen- 
eral, a  grand  agitator,  a  vehement  partisan.  He  was 
nevertheless  the  variety  of  bourgeois  who  always  looks 
back  to  Louis  Philippe.  Amazingly  expansive  in  his 
sudden  confidences  (for  he  was  a  southerner),  he 
would  send  you  the  next  day  one  of  his  undecipherable 
notes  suggesting  that  you  do  not  happen  to  mention 
the  matter  in  hand  to  any  one  interested. 

No  one,  of  course,  has  done  so  much  as  Sardou 
to  glorify  the  drama  by  costly  spectacles  shining  with 
a  wealth  of  historical  details.  He  had  a  genius  and 
conscience  about  stage  accuracy,  truthful  reproduction. 
He  was  methodical  and  tireless.  The  amount  of  time 
and  effort  he  expended  on  the  topic  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, for  instance,  was  extreme.  I  once  saw  his 
Robespierre  data.  It  was  fatiguing  to  contemplate. 
He  had  countless  drawers  containing  everything  he 
could  find  on  every  dramatic  subject  he  could  hear  of 
in  the  world. 

A  wealthy  connoisseur,  an  alert  observer,  an  expert 
collector,  he  was  however  not  strictly  a  student.  He 
was  an  excellent  business  man,  shrewd,  strongly  execu- 
tive.    If  you  were  two  or  three  minutes  late,  the  door 


^ 


Victorien  Sardou  333 

was  inexorably  closed.  You  would  have  to  return  the 
next  day.  He  had  fifty  definite  plays  rampant  in  his 
mind,  each  greater  or  more  important  than  the  others. 
He  had  a  hundred  projects  which  he  was  driving  for- 
ward like  an  imperator.  Energy,  adaptability,  the 
most  clever  resourcefulness,  unequaled  experience — 
every  one  knows  he  combined  all  in  the  highest  degree. 
The  effect  on  the  emotions  of  the  public  in  a  theater — 
he  had  reduced  all  that  to  an  absolute  science  with 
no  one  to  dispute  with  him  about  it.  He  knew  just 
when  and  where  the  average  spectator  would  have  to 
clamp  himself  to  his  seat  in  order  not  to  hit  the  ceiling. 

Sardou  was  an  accomplished  actor,  though  he  was 
never  on  the  stage.  As  in  the  case  of  Madame  Bern- 
hardt, the  best  acting  he  did  was  going  on  constantly, 
every  day,  in  the  strictly  domestic  side  of  his  life.  A 
young  American  woman  once  happened  to  overhear 
that  I  was  going  to  see  him  the  next  morning.  She 
was  "dying"  to  meet  him.  Would  I  not  take  her? 
I  did,  feeling  that  he  would  not  take  exception.  As 
we  were  leaving  his  study,  he  took  her  hand  to  say 
good-by.  He  put  his  other  palm  over  both  hands  and 
turned  to  me  with  the  air  of  a  conquered  admirer, 
courtier,  and  downright  friend,  admitting,  "What 
beautiful  eyes  she  has !"  It  was  a  perfect  little  piece  of 
stage  business  and  coquetry. 

My  young  unmarried  friend  was  swept  off  her  feet. 
She  bounded  down  the  boulevard  as  if  a  King  had 
proposed  to  her.  "Just  think  of  it!"  she  kept  exclaim- 
ing. "I  shall  be  able  to  tell  my  grandchildren  that  the 
great  Sardou  told  their  grandmother  she  had  beautiful 


334       French  Essays  and  Profiles 

eyes."  I  have  always  thought  that  incident  turned 
her  to  the  stage,  for  she  had  never  dreamed  of  the 
theater  as  a  profession.  At  any  rate,  she  became  one 
of  our  conspicuous  actresses. 

Sardou  was  truly  a  great  and  worthy  man.  He 
wrote  plays  of  many  different  and  lasting  kinds.  We 
are  apt  to  think  only  of  his  large  and  sometimes  doubt- 
ful sensations  in  which  it  was  partly  his  object  to 
epater  le  monde — dumfound  mankind.  We  are  apt 
to  forget  that  no  play  touches  the  true  patriotic  French 
heart  more  direct  than  "Patrie"  ( 1 869) ,  and  no  home 
play  continues  more  pleasantly  popular  among  the  best 
bourgeois  classes  in  France  than  *'Nos  Intimes" 
(1861).  If  we  consider  the  theater  in  general  as  it 
was  in  i860  and  as  it  is  to-day,  has  any  one,  if  we  ex- 
cept Ibsen,  had  anything  like  Sardou's  influence  upon 
its  developments? 


THE    END 


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